Even Such Is Time
by KingCanute
Summary: Rockstar AU. An afternoon detained in a police cell wasn't quite how Clara Oswald had imagined the rest of her day would pan out. Let alone spending it with one of Britain's most famous musicians.
1. On Suspicion Of Common Assault

**Chapter 1:** **On Suspicion Of Common Assault**

* * *

Fame looked to be about as appealing as being punched repetitively in the face.

Squawking and destitute, the flock of scavengers had arrived about five minutes before the car containing their unassuming prey had. Prepared with their cameras and their microphones, they waited with eager, restless anticipation. There was absolutely no subtlety in their objective.

 _Seagulls,_ perhaps, hungry and squabbling amongst themselves. Or something more carnivorous. Something darker and dangerous that could wait patiently on the fringes of a hunt, only to attack when their target least expected. A malevolent sense of enjoyment in the trap. _We got you. You didn't see us, and we got you._

Clara could taste the disgust in her throat as she watched them, observing their behaviour with a sense of nausea. She swallowed it down, wishing she wasn't about to become witness to the spectacle. She would have assumed they might have been bored, or at least disinterested with their own tedious cycle. But then again, no one was bored in a hunt.

The car pulled up, a shiny black sedan, probably with a hired driver; and she was granted a fleeting glimpse of the back passenger door opening before the flock descended and it was covered under flashes and bodies.

If it had been her, she wouldn't have gotten out of the car. A call to the building and a request for directions to another entrance. That seemed a logical solution to the literal obstacle of the clawing, desperate mob that had congregated to greet the man still contained inside the vehicle.

Maybe that was the problem though; that if you didn't ignore it, you'd be constantly thinking about it, bending your actions to suit a scenario you didn't ask for in the first place.

 _I want to walk in the front door like everybody else has this morning._

So it was odd, when she thought about it, the look that flashed across his face when he stepped out of the car. So odd in fact, she thought she must have imagined it. As abhorrent as the frenzy around him was, she assumed he would have been used to it. Why wouldn't he be? Years and years of the same treatment, the same repetitive cycle of attention and scrutiny and surveillance.

In her moment of confusion, she'd even glanced to the vapid faces of his own assailants to confirm if they'd seen it too. But they weren't looking at him, she knew that, and promptly chastised herself for thinking it possible they could also have witnessed the fleeting expression. They were looking at an entity, a vessel for profit and gain. A recognisable face that would sell their empty stories for another day in the world where there was no room for subtlety of emotion, because they'd already decided—before he had even arrived—what they needed from him.

And so when it happened that the passing of _fear_ came to outweigh a reaction of frustration or dismay, or even weary acceptance to his immediate predicament, it threw her a little. That tiny instant of transparency before the barriers rose, before his mouth set in a hard line and he ducked his head, fated to be swallowed under the wave of bodies and the flash of too many cameras.

The shouting uproar began and the voices became too indistinct for her to decipher anything legible. Clara tried to drone them out and draw back to her own reality, listing an internalised string of choice profanities at the man who was causing the silence and the moment of peace she'd been craving for to be ruined. Selfish, yes, but she didn't care. Twenty minutes was all she was going to get before her own form of attention returned and she was needed for questions and requests and problems. Different of course, she reasoned, but perhaps there was a flicker of crossover.

From the pocket of her shirt came the vibrating interruption of her phone. Irritated, she thumbed the screen without bothering to look at the caller. "Yeah?"

A warm laugh filtered into her ear. "Your phone etiquette needs some work, Oswald," came the familiar accent of her best friend, and as always on a Thursday—colleague.

 _Jack. Always Jack._

"Don't care," she replied. "It's my lunch break. Anyone calling me now deserves it."

"Seen the crowd outside?" Jack asked, impressed.

"Seen it?" she growled, eyeing the moving swarm. "I'm _in_ it. I'm having sushi at the concrete beach with the fucking seagulls."

"Aren't vultures the preferred metaphor?"

 _Vultures._ There was the feathered species she'd been looking for. "If I throw some of my lunch in their direction, I think it would still be the same effect."

"Ah, I can see you."

Clara raised an acknowledging chopstick in the air toward the high set of windows on the fourth floor. The seat she occupied was wedged into the side of the narrow courtyard below. She cringed as she tasted the coffee one of the interns had passed her as she'd left. Far too much sugar.

"Know who I can see?" she continued down the phone. "Our favourite bitch from the Mail."

"What—Sharon?"

"Yeah," she muttered, pinpointing the woman with a detestable gaze. "Red coat. First one here, too. Still, I suppose she didn't have to travel far. Just crawled out from the gutter."

Jack snorted.

"Why's there so many of them?" she asked, curious. "Seems excessive. It's not like he's that kid—" She struggled to settle on a name. "Oh, you know."

"Who?"

"That _kid,"_ she stressed, name evading her if she ever knew it in the first place. "Light hair. Looks like he could benefit from a wash. Thinks he's the new Bowie but writes like he's never been outside."

"You could be describing any of them," Jack chuckled, amused.

She smiled. "Yeah. Well. It's not like _that kid_ is showing up. What's he done?"

"Wife had a rendezvous with his"—Jack began reading from something—"'best friend and manager.' Papers got it this morning."

"Fuck," she offered through a second attempt at the coffee. Just as bad as the first. Worse, even.

"Mmm, poor bastard," Jack sympathised. "There's some pretty incriminating pictures."

"Who's his wife?"

This woman's name was more familiar. It lingered somewhere in her mind, scattered letters from distant pages, hazy images from afar.

"River Song. How do you not know that? She just got a Globe for that film, actually."

"What film?"

"Oh, you know. _That_ film."

Clara exhaled amusement at her friend's quip and then nodded absently, recalling the woman as she watched the surging pestilence reach the entrance to the building.

"Wait, Jack, what do you mean 'there's pictures'?" she frowned, sliding from her fixed hypnosis. "What are you looking at?"

Jack laughed, a culpable sound of admission.

"Tell me you're not," she groaned.

"Where I source my news from on my own lunch break is none of your business."

"Sure, sure. So much for quality journalism. Give it a few days and you'll be pestering me to give Katie fucking Hopkins a contract."

" _Balanced and impartial here on Radio 2,"_ they both managed to drawl together with mock formality. Another laugh echoed into her ear and she drew the phone away slightly, wincing. Jack did this at the microphone too and she'd formed a habit of pushing back his chair so their listeners wouldn't be rendered completely deaf.

"She'd be great for our ratings," he mused, teasing.

"I'd rather shoot myself in the head."

"Drastic."

"What's this call about, Harkness," Clara sighed, wanting him to get to the point so at least there'd be one less talking mouth in the elusive silence she was craving. "I want to finish this awful fucking coffee before I inform Sharon you're looking for a new job."

"Courtesy call," he continued, quite rightly avoiding the empty threat of termination.

"Ah, I get it. This my five-minutes-beforehand producer warning."

"You're the boss. It's only polite."

She could hear him grinning down the phone. That contagious, Californian, white-toothed smile. "You're treading a fine line if you think bringing up fresh infidelity during a live interview is going to go well. The man already has a volatile reputation."

"Yeah, but this is _me_ we're talking about. Not some amatuer from the hospital broadcast."

She scrubbed a weary hand over her eyes. A distant twinge in her temples told her the headache she'd scheduled to have later in the day was going to happen now.

"Jesus. Why the hell didn't he cancel on us this morning?"

Jack was silent, choosing the rhetorical over delving into the mindset of a man who had just had his private life exposed to the world. Why guess when he could get it straight from the source? She sighed again, knowing he was now just waiting for her approval. The obscure yells from the entrance of the building continued drifting into her ears.

"You know you've got free reign, Jack. It's your show—ask what you want. Just please try and keep it in mind that I'm the one who'll be at the centre of the fallout if he ends up diving across the desk to smash your face into the mic."

"The ratings we'd get," he sighed dramatically.

"Forget the goddamn ratings," she chastised, really more amused than anything else. "You should be more concerned our Gods upstairs will take you off the air."

"Highly unlikely, _darling,"_ he emphasised in just the way he knew would annoy her. "I keep this station _on_ the air."

She bit her lip to hold back the returning smile, not wanting to give him the satisfaction even though he couldn't see it. They both knew the higher powers thought he was the greatest decision they'd made for the station in years.

"So, _Doctor."_ Her drawl came out in a perfectly practiced imitation of Jack's American accent. "I know it's only been a minute, but please let our listeners know, what _does_ it feel like to know your wife has been fucking not just another man, but your _best_ friend and—Ah, shit!"

Clara jumped to her feet as she suddenly understood what was happening in the scene unfolding before her. She ended the call without a thought, already running towards the swarming, seething mass of bodies.

She realised in that moment, why the frantic persistence of reporters and photographers hadn't ceased at the entranceway.

 _Harry, Harry, Harry,_ she cycled in her head like a curse on repeat as she began pushing past the edges. He wasn't here, their man on the door. Young Harry, who she insisted on referring to as _Henry_ and would usually bow to on her way out, calling across her sworn allegiance and reminding him of her loyal pledge to his majesty's broadcasting company; enjoying watching him blush at her teasing attentions. She searched for his red hair and sturdy figure, cursing his moment of carelessness when she didn't find him.

Locked out of the destination's safe confines and cornered like prey against the wolves _—no, vultures._ She couldn't think of a worse fate. He should have been her responsibility the moment he had stepped out of the car.

Barging through the crowd was difficult, but she wasn't exactly going about it in a polite manner. _Should have been wearing heels,_ she considered darkly as she shoved aside a burly man to her right and trod over the feet of another faceless reporter. Pushing past the rows of cameras, she broke into the small circumference of remaining space. Polite of them to leave half a metre of room.

Clara grabbed his arm and he turned into her immediately. Their eyes met—a flash of trepidation passing through her as she realised he needed to understand instantly she wasn't one of _them_ —and then she saw it again, the undiluted fear, completely indisputable now in this proximity. The rest of his face was like stone, blank and devoid of any emotion, mouth still set in a hard line. Only his eyes gave him away and for a moment she was transfixed in them, feeling a rush of pure comprehension. She knew this look— _I'm afraid, I don't know what to do, help me_ —

Ineffable, but familiar. And _intimate,_ as if she had just stumbled into taking something from him she wasn't supposed to have because of a tiny, aleatory moment in time. The keycard in her hand dug a cutting edge into her palm. She tried to move towards the door but it was as if her ears had finally registered the volume of encircling noise, and a wall of sound and light pressed her back from the escape. The words she had just spoken into the phone were somehow being repeated back to her. Confused, she singled out a source to focus on, connecting to a photographer. Aggressive, provoking—she wondered if that was how Jack had perceived the words from her lips.

"Your wife's been with another man, mate. Weren't you enough for her? Why's she been fucking your friend?"

— _fucking your friend fucking your friend fucking your—_

There was no decision. No weighing of options, or consequence of actions. She spun around without giving it any thought. It was just _—_

Her fist connected with the man's face. The knuckles ground hard into his jaw, bone sliding into bone and then away into air as her target stumbled backwards. It felt good. Slivers of satisfaction flashed alongside the bursts of light from the surrounding cameras.

A thousand quid worth of plastic and glass hitting the concrete became the deciding factor for the photographer's following response. She sympathized with him, understanding the reaction because she'd just done the exact same thing. That breath he needed, the important moment of time to allow for the rational to come through and counter the instinctual retaliation didn't happen. Already looking for a fight and too deep into the _hunt_ to give himself time, it became almost inevitable.

She felt nothing as he lurched towards her; no fear or panic, quite willing to accept whatever was about to happen next. She supposed he'd grab her. Then, after that was anyone's guess. She didn't have a clue. Comfortably numb against the impending fate she'd set herself up for, she watched his altering face _—_ set like she had just crushed every single one of his favourite toys and then laughed about it. He managed to sink his fingers hard into her left shoulder before he was slammed against the glass door.

The man who had caused all this, the man with the famous face, the man whose wife was fucking his best friend, drew back one long arm and then extended his fist to meet a shocked and dazed expression.

The photographer crumpled, blood pouring from his nose, pitching forward to meet the waiting indifference of concrete.

 _One down…_ _quite a few to go._

The keycard in her hand was suddenly pressing against the access point and she was dragged over the fallen body, passing through the door. The raucous shouts muffled. The thick glass did a rather sufficient job. The empty foyer, which had been empty precisely for the most inconveniently of timed minutes, began refilling, populating with another more confounded, albeit less hostile, crowd. A disarray of bodies. Confusion and then questions, and then more confusion as questions were answered with a silence contrasting the commotion outside the glass. There was young Harry, one hand clutching a cup of coffee, the other at his side, bright eyes staring in bewilderment.

Clara glanced up to the man beside her. He was looking at her, frowning with an expression she couldn't quite place. She turned her gaze away, ignoring him as they stood together patiently in the centre of mayhem, waiting.

The police arrived in only a few minutes. She took a moment to admire the response time before weighing it against the fact that they were in central London on a weekday, and subsequently took back her appreciation.

Two officers first, and then four, and then more as someone finally decided the growing crowd outside was perhaps a cause for concern.

Just procedure though, when she thought about it while they began talking in her direction. Arrest, charges, court, bail, court, jail. That was the way the system worked. Hundreds, thousands of years of evolved civilisation. A fine system.

 _...on suspicion of common assault..._

Anne Boleyn didn't really get a fair trial though, she mused, contemplating the inevitable failures in democracy. The jurors were selected by the prosecution.

 _...you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if…_

She could see _that-bitch-Sharon_ frantically talking into her phone, a look of pure glee spread across her ferret-like features. She'd just been handed all of her Christmas presents early. One clawed hand pushed on the back of her own photographer to continue capturing the scene.

 _...anything you do say will be given in evidence. Do you understand?_

This was a real fucking inconvenience. It all seemed incredibly excessive, just like the ridiculous size the mob had grown into barely twenty minutes earlier. On the other hand, she barely felt any of it. Not really. She viewed the unfolding event with only hazy, mild interest.

 _...Miss Oswald? Miss Oswald, do you understand?_

"Yeah. Yes. Got it, thanks."

 _Thanks._ She wished Jack had heard that and was having a good laugh. _A true Briton,_ he would say. She would have smiled if she could remember how to summon the expression. She wanted to care she'd just fucked up her own live broadcast, that she'd put Jack in a difficult position, that right now somebody was on the phone to the higher powers informing them that one of their producers was being arrested _with_ one of the guests.

Mostly though, in the wake of what little emotion did manage to filter through her desensitised condition, she was regretting she had just ruined her chances of having a properly silent lunch break.


	2. The Tower Of London

**Chapter 2:** **The Tower Of London**

* * *

The first thing she noticed in the back of the police car besides the relatively comfortable seats and ominous glass barrier between the passengers and the drivers, was that the man beside her was utterly gorgeous.

There was no intent behind the observation, it was simply a fact. And she observed this fact in the way that any person with eyes, in her opinion, should.

She already knew his face. Everyone did. Except she'd never actually _looked_ at him before. In person, he was someone she could pass on the street, glance at in a supermarket, meet in a bar. The distorting screen of the media disappeared and he turned into someone real and alive and breathing, shifting under the rise and fall of his slow breaths and blinking eyes.

Clara ran her gaze quietly over his profile while he stared out the window into London's passing stone, white in the early afternoon sun. If his eyes hadn't been open, she would have blatantly stared at him. Not because of who he was, but simply because of that sudden fact she'd just discovered. So instead she considered him from the corner of her eye, watching the lights and shadows of London cross his face.

Older than her by perhaps fifteen— _?_ —years, the discernible fact only came to highlight the striking, austere features; the unruly silver hair flecked in contrast with black against his pale skin, that even in the warm light seemed whiter than sun-bleached bone.

 _John Smith._

A slight layer of the preceding numbness slivered from her. A tiny smile curved the edges of her mouth. That really was a hell of name to match to one of Britain's most well-known faces.

Of course, _John Smith_ was just part of the image. No one called him that, it was simply the tag that went along with the alias. A name that should have died with the rise of his renown, but instead the ordinarity of it in contrast to the extraordinary had ironically made it stick, a punchline to be shared with those who were still too young, or to those few who had somehow stayed ignorant of the last quarter century.

— _He's called the Doctor._

— _What's his real name?_

— _John Smith._

— _Seriously?_

Cue laughter.

Clara's gaze slid to his hands. A smear of red was painted across his right knuckles, brushed up to his wrist. One lone finger tapped something repetitively against the dark cut of his jeans. The veins on the back of his hands protruded slightly and she followed their curving pathways until they disappeared under the cuff of his coat. Without meaning to, she found herself captivated by his pale, slender fingers. They were almost delicate, slender in the way a piano players might be, yet the giveaway was on his left, calloused tips formed from countless hours of pressing steel into wood.

 _Musician._

Proper British rock, or whatever genre incorporated both the post-Britpop revolution and the alternative hint of the anti-establishment. Frontman of a band that had basically drowned under the weight of prestigious awards. More singles sold than all the other ones, more time spent at number one than… Well, she didn't actually know, because she didn't actually—

"Out you get."

Clara's eyes snapped from pale hands and into the insistent face of the arresting police officer. The door was open. She hadn't even realised they'd stopped. The woman ushering her out looked nice. A friendly face. Bit heavy on the eyeliner, if she was going to be completely, honestly observant, but that hardly mattered in whatever context they were being acquainted in. And, she supposed, if the woman hadn't been escorting her forward into the looming entrance of a police station, she might have commented on the perfect manicure that accompanied the firm grip around her upper arm.

She groaned to herself. _What the fuck, Oswald?_

Inside, the station itself looked as if it had been furbished to exactly replicate every criminal drama she had ever seen. A small part of her considered that it was perhaps inspired in the opposite direction, but this felt less real than what it should, so she stuck with the former. A poster on the wall caught her attention.

 _Stop. Think._

Bit late for that.

The first pangs of uncertainty fluttered through her veins as she realised she was being separated from the man accompanying her into the unknown, but it passed quickly as the next minutes blurred, and she just went through the motions like an obedient subject.

 _Belongings. Fingerprints. Photos. DNA. Phone call? No._

And then a brightly lit room with minimal furnishings—a desk and four chairs. She sat in the offered seating, pressing the flat of her hands into the cold wood. The cautions were read again and then she was given another Right From The Passages Of The British Criminal Justice System.

Fuck. _Lawyer._

It would be stupid not to. Stupid decisions—the theme of the day. Problem was, she still didn't seem to care; needing someone to make these decisions for her. While she struggled to process a decision between the simple _yes_ and _no_ required, a woman charged into the room, brisk and alert, stern assertiveness written across her face. Fortunately, being arrested in front of her workplace was public enough for her employers to take charge. The woman smiled at her, controlling but assuring.

 _My client will cooperate in answering your questions._

 _Will I?_

 _Yes, you will._

Clara answered the officers blankly, reading from a script in her head. She forgot their queries immediately after answering, words drifting away into nothing but the audio recorder on the side of the desk. The red light blinked at her intermittently.

Afterwards, she noted, Janet— _no, Janine_ —was speaking to her alone, relating something that she felt she should be listening to. Coherent thought evaded her mind and she put her elbow on the table, propping her head up with her hand as her inapt neck began refusing its duty to keep it upright. She felt slightly sick, the impending headache knocking once again. Exhaustion from just being in this blank room seeped in around her, numbing her limbs and weighing her down like someone slowly pouring sand over her body.

It wasn't until the grey door of a holding cell opened and she was ushered firmly inside did Clara start coming to her senses, reunited with her former partner in crime, her reprehensible accomplice.

The door slid shut behind her. Locked. Impenetrable. She stared across to the man on the other side of the room.

What Clara knew about the Doctor, _John Smith,_ was what everyone knew. The gifted son of Glasgow, born into ruling impoverishment amidst the slide into the _iron fist_ of a conservative reign. A success story perhaps, but then what might have been first seen as simple young talent, turned out to be unrivaled genius. The Second British Invasion had finished and music had forever changed its shape, emerging from its post punk state and into a different beast for a new era of art and distribution. The band— _Gallifrey_ —rode somewhere at the finale of the Britpop, _Cool Britannia_ revolution, and slid seamlessly into the front of the post format, a new sound for a new movement in British culture.

His reputation now might have been best described as notoriety if it could stick, but he had never quite been able to hold a dishonourable title. Instead he bordered somewhere in the swirling centre—loved and feared. She had no idea what caused this indecisiveness. It seemed clear-cut to her. Arrogant. Self-righteous. He was scathing with the media. Interviews were difficult, interviewers were irritated or terrified, and the interviewee himself uncooperative or disinterested. None of that had stopped him becoming one of Britain's biggest names in music, a focal point for culture and progress that spread like wildfire outside the kingdom's borders and returned home critical acclaim of the highest offerings.

However, right now in this cold, empty room, the thought of being stuck in here with him was suddenly incredibly unappealing. He glanced at her only briefly as she sat down in the furthest possible position of their seating arrangements—a metal bench running alongside one wall. She didn't care who he was, she just wanted to leave. She wanted to go home, try and make friends with the cat, have a cup of tea and spend the rest of the day assembling the awaiting mass of contracts and release forms. Or do something more personally productive. Her motorbike was broken. She could fix that.

"Thank you very much," the man beside her said suddenly, gaze remaining fixed on the wall, "for ruining my afternoon." The blunt assertiveness cut through the cold bite in the small room. "A really brilliant thing to do."

She didn't like his tone. It was bordering on patronising.

"Oh, I'm _sorry,"_ she snarled, feeling a shot of anger ripple through her. "I've caused you such an inconvenience."

Patronising. That was how it was done.

Maybe she was looking for a fight. She felt like it now. The real anger she had been missing in the frenzied crowd began slivering through her veins in a budding, hot caress.

"You're the one in trouble here," he shrugged.

"We're both in this room," she shot back.

He shook his head, eyes fixed on her. "You assaulted someone."

"Yeah, because I was defending _you."_

"From what?" He looked at her like she was deranged. "I'm more than capable of ignoring clear provocation. Jesus, was it not obvious? That's what those people do. They want you to react. You gave them exactly what they came there to get. Anger."

 _Anger._ _How ironic._ The emotion she had been entirely lacking in. Not now, however. It surprised her a little. She'd been angry for weeks but hadn't really felt it as a proper emotion; crushed instead under numb weight. Clara grit her teeth as he shifted on the bench, turning so he was facing her directly.

"You hit him as well," she growled as he opened his mouth to speak. "But let's hope your special privileges kick in shortly so you'll be free to go."

She bit into her lip to stop herself from saying anything else as he stared at her, expressionless, perhaps almost cold before deciding to ignore the comment.

"Here's how it is," he began, aggravated and putting his index finger into the metal sheet beside him. "Obviously you haven't thought it through or your lawyer is too fucking incompetent to tell you."

His rhotic accent was rough, the deeper Scottish tones wanting to grate in her ears but not quite achieving it. She imagined if he hadn't been angry he would be mesmerizing to listen to. Although even now, as his words clipped and burred, there was an overall pleasing softness about his voice.

"Our man on the ground? Highly unlikely to press charges. You hit him—he retaliated. Fucked himself over right there. You're what—five one? Five two? You've got height and gender biases on your side." He shook his head, scowling. "If by some goddamn chance he's mentally unhinged—maybe not a stretch based on what he does for a living—and does want to spend Christmas in court? He'll be paying for a lawyer to spin some bullshit against whoever it is that you work for, and based on proximity alone, that would be our majesty's favourite British broadcasting company. The odds aren't good. See the problem? And that's just if he's freelance. If he's on a tabloid payroll? Even less likely again. They've got enough fucking problems dealing with the shit they write than to focus on pursuing a charge that's dead in the water."

He took a breath, formidable brows low over his eyes. She tried not to smile at him out of pure derision. He was properly angry. It amused her slightly.

"So that just leaves the police charges," he continued. "Clearly, _clearly,_ I was defending you. But I could argue that _you_ on the other hand, weren't physically provoked. So let's hope Dave from the Sun got a nice long recording of that bastard questioning why your boyfriend's been fucking some other woman in the office while you're at home wondering where the fuck he is."

Her blood turned cold, an icy flow that froze the circulating hot rage. He didn't seem bothered.

"Maybe you will go to jail after all. Jesus Christ. What the fuck were you thinking?"

Clara swallowed, feeling numb again. It spread around her like an encompassing cloak, unwilling to release her from its familiar entrapment. She wanted water, if only to clear her mouth of the metallic taste. It was reminding her of blood. She wondered if she'd bitten into her tongue.

"You didn't have to hit him back," she breathed through her teeth.

He eyed her with a look she didn't know how to read. It made her feel vulnerable somehow, like he had gained an ability to climb inside her brain. "Yes I did," he said quietly, and then turned away from her, staring to the opposite wall.

The cell they were being detained in was just as blank as the interview room had been. White walls, painted stone in that awful washed way that implied _facility._ It was cold, too. Far from replicant of early November's external temperature but low enough to be slightly uncomfortable. Clara didn't have a coat. The midday sun on a particularly calm day had promised enough warmth for twenty minutes without issue, so she had taken it gladly, naively, foolishly. She crossed her arms over her white dress shirt.

A window coordinated with the florescent lights on the ceiling in providing a bland illuminance. The pane of glass was too high to be of any use. Not that she was thinking of escape. And frankly, if the opportunity presented itself, she was unimpressed to realise she couldn't be bothered.

Minutes ticked by. Metaphorically, as there was no clock in the room and she didn't have a watch, so she guessed. Five. Fifteen. Twenty four. Thirty.

Right now, she was supposed to be sitting in the comfortable confines of the studio. Jack would be continuing the ever expanding saga into the organization of his imminent wedding with the involvement of their guest of the week, currently the one sitting three meters away staring at the high window without expression. She traced back in her mind to exactly _why_ he had been scheduled for an interview on their radio show.

Jack… Jack had started talking about him months ago. At this immediate moment, she couldn't quite recall the details. But it had eventuated in a demanding insistence to try and get him to agree to spend three hours participating in their weekly moment of chaos. Her friend and his ego. If anyone could successfully interview the Doctor, it was going to be Jack Harkness. To all of their surprise, and more she thought, to her credit, she had successfully convinced his manager— _best friend and manager_ —that this would be a good idea. Getting arrested hadn't exactly been mentioned in the arrangement.

At thirty seven minutes, he stood up and shrugged off his coat. It was dark grey, hooded, long enough to reach the back of his thighs. Wool. Merino. Something. Looked expensive. He closed the distance between them and extended it towards her with one hand.

"Put this on," he said firmly. "Don't argue."

"I'm not cold," Clara responded automatically.

He sighed. "Tell your ego to calm the fuck down and be sensible."

Something in his tone made her want to take it. She fought it down. "I don't want your coat."

He pursed his lips and then shrugged, throwing it onto the bench next to her. "Fine. It can stay there." He sat back down and returned his eyes to the window. Beneath he wore a thick black jumper which was fraying at the hems over his slightly faded black jeans.

Clara looked at the coat from the corner of her eye, feeling the prickle of the unheated room the longer she gave it her attention.

"Fucksake," he complained after a few minutes. "Just put it on."

"Stop telling me what to do."

"You're making me cold by proximity."

"You're making yourself cold."

He shook his head. "Christ you're stubborn."

"No, I'm just not in the habit of accepting chivalry from arseholes."

A muscle in his jaw twitched but he didn't respond. They fell once again into silence and Clara grimaced, returning to her mindless counting. She had no idea how long they would be held in here. If Janine had told her, she hadn't heard.

Fifty minutes. One hour. Sixty eight minutes.

"John."

She said his name like she was tasting the word on her tongue. He turned his head, meeting her commanding gaze with stoic consistency before she noticed a curious flicker in his expression.

"Does anyone actually call you that?"

He shook his head slowly, back of his skull pressed into the stone wall behind him. "Barely anyone. No."

"'Barely anyone' or 'no one'? Which is it?"

"Barely anyone," he answered, regarding her cautiously.

"Can I call you John?"

"What makes you think you're entitled to a first name basis?"

Clara drummed her fingers against the bench. "I feel like sharing a cell has accelerated our relationship to a certain level of intimacy," she replied, lowering her voice to the most seductive she could manage in the circumstances. Pretty good if she had to give herself an appraisal. She switched back to normal and pressed her spine into the wall. "That, and I'm not a fan of the alternative."

"You don't like 'Doctor'?" he asked, eyebrows raising, suddenly incredulous.

"Not really," she shrugged, answering him in the way he had just done. "No."

For a moment she thought he was going to be angry. She prepared herself for the backlash, already hearing it in her head and steeling herself over. However—he just shrugged instead, expression indecipherable.

"John it is then." He didn't ask for her own name and she didn't bother telling him.

"John, I'm going to wear your coat."

"About fucking time," he muttered as she pulled it towards her and stood up.

It was far too big for her, sleeves passing the tips of her fingers and ends reaching her knees. He was slim though and this was undoubtedly a tailored coat, and so it fit her shoulders probably better than it should have. She sat back down and closed her eyes, instantly feeling what was left of the heat escaping from her body trap and begin seeping back into her cold skin. When she breathed in, she felt herself relaxing. A hint of lemongrass circled her senses and something else that she thought she recognised but wasn't currently nameable. She supposed it smelt of him, unfamiliar of course but somehow—

 _What. Are. You. Doing._

Clara opened her eyes in aversion to her moment of captivation and was distracted instantly as she found John staring at her.

"Why did you do it?"

His question wasn't accusatory. Instead, it was soft with intrigue and fascination. She could have lied. But this _look_ he was giving her—it was the same as in the moments afterwards in the foyer—brows slightly furrowed, eyes creasing with raw curiosity but somehow understanding, as if there were a slight possibility he already knew the truth and was just asking for confirmation.

Clara ran her tongue against the back of her teeth, panicking.

 _why why why why why_

He waited patiently for a reply and she supposed the longer the silence that stretched between his question and a response went on for, the more difficult it became to spin fiction. An overwhelming sense of shyness hit her. It came out of absolutely nowhere, the impact making her words lodge in her throat. Her eyes averted desperately to anywhere that wasn't him. She tried to swallow it down, force herself to relax and found she couldn't, her throat refusing to function. She clenched her hands into fists and her right sparked with pain, shooting tendrils through her wrist and extending into her forearm. The entrapment transformed and weight began pressing on her chest, a slow and cruel crush. In this small enclosure, she felt suddenly suffocated. Struggling, she raised a trembling fist and pressed it into her mouth, pouring demands into her lungs, forcing them to obey her strict requests to work normally and not succumb to the pressure from her chest.

She flinched when a hand connected to her shoulder, his of course, there was no one else.

" _Don't."_

Automatically, practiced a hundred times, the word spilled from her mouth before she even knew she was saying it. The hand retreated instantly, but his presence remained solidly in her blurry gaze. He crouched, level, one hand on the seat beside her for balance.

"Look at me," he instructed, voice insistent and commanding.

She blinked and found herself doing as he said, clearing her eyes to focus on the man in front of her. Concern, confusion—yes—but something else, too. Something she recognised, a reflection of a familiar insight. Comprehension.

"Follow." He put his fingers into his chest to indicate his intended area and drew in a deep breath, halting as his lungs filled to capacity and waited for her to copy.

She inhaled before she had even registered what he was doing for her, following his simple direction, allowing oxygen to reach her lungs in steady, calm breaths. He breathed with her slowly, holding her gaze as she stayed captured in his eyes. They distracted her. Grey. She picked out the colour easily. Not _just_ grey, but it remained the dominant amongst the blue and the green; a hue that seemed to shift and change in rapid succession under the light from the high window. He blinked as a lizard might, quick, but with the insistence it hadn't happened at all.

Synchronised in breath, she felt herself calming, the panic easing and returning to its hiding place somewhere in her chest. Dormant again. She skated her palm over its unwanted residence, pressing fingers into her collarbone and tried to drag her gaze away from his mesmerizing eyes.

"Hey," she watched him murmur before the soft words reached her ears. "Are you all right?"

 _Good question._

The answer was a resounding _no._ But her defences replied instead and her head inclined, another automatic response to something that had been posed far too many times. "Yeah," she breathed. "Fine."

His continuing expression told her he perhaps didn't believe the assurance, so for distraction she extended out her right hand and closed it back into a fist.

"Do you want my assistance with your wife? I'm out for hire."

John didn't react. He just stared at her, impassive. Unresponsive. The silence between them passed into a time extended long enough for her to consider getting ready to suffer the consequences for another inappropriate remark, but then he reacted in a similar way as before—mouth parted slightly, eyes sliding over her with quiet perplexity. He bit into his bottom lip. Not exactly indifferent but not angry either.

"I think you might have a bit of trouble with River," he said, weighing her up with a frown. "Did you see _False Exhibit?"_

She knew the film but hadn't watched it, indicating that with a shake of her head.

"Well, the director made her have six months of fight training before they shot it. I've been scared of her ever since."

John smiled slightly and she breathed relief as he inhaled once more before releasing in a defeated, weary sigh. Dropping his head, he pressed his free hand into his eyes and straightened from his crouch, shifting to sit beside her instead. A hand's width of space lay between them. He gazed up to the steady, unflattering lights.

"Bit of a slip up getting herself photographed, don't you think?" John shook his head slightly as if he was amused. "Amatuer mistake, too. She's always been so careful with the press."

"You knew she was having an affair?" she asked, surprised.

He nodded slowly. "Yes." The corners of his mouth turned down and he gritted his teeth. "Although I didn't know her latest objective was going to be fucking through my friends in alphabetical order. Andrew in July. Casey last month. And... _Jeremy_ this week." He growled the name and then gave a wry smile. "My manager," he added for clarity, although she didn't need it. "He's not actually my best friend. And I suppose I should make it ex-manager."

Distantly she made the connection as to who she had been speaking to on the phone in the previous weeks while organising the radio show.

"I'm running out of friends," he frowned. "She'll be done by Christmas."

"What did you do?"

The pure audacity of the comment, coming from someone who was a complete stranger, and combined perhaps with the way there was a hint of implied incrimination in her tone, had a starling effect on him. His eyebrows raised incredulously.

"All _I_ did, was not want to be married to her anymore."

"Well there you go," she shrugged. "It is your fault."

That statement should have gone down as well as punching him in the face without any explanation. Instead he turned towards her, eyes flashing with confusion.

"Are you trying to provoke me?" he asked, frowning now.

Clara shrugged. "Not sure," she admitted. "But I'm having a fucking awful day, so it's possible."

" _You're_ having a bad day? Jesus. What else has happened? Ran out of milk this morning?"

"Yeah. And you're making it worse by talking," she snapped, not reacting well his sardonic response. "So shut up."

"Right then. Let's not talk."

"Good."

"Fine."

The outside rush of distant traffic, muffled by the thick walls, filtered into her ears. She breathed out slowly, surprised at her abrupt upstart. That was probably a little harsh. _A lot_ harsh, actually. Still, she found she didn't care all that much. She would much rather wait this mess out in silence than pretend she wanted to have a conversation. The quiet didn't last long. Beside her, a few minutes later and without any discernable reason, John started laughing. The sound was lovely. She could hear it birth in his chest, deep and resonate until it travelled to his throat and spilled aloud into the world, reaching into the curve of his mouth and then into his dark and watchful eyes.

"I can't believe you don't like 'Doctor'," he said through his amusement, putting a sweeping hand through his silver curls.

Clara found herself smiling back in spite of herself, his genuine reaction contagious. "Bit pretentious."

"Fuck off," he said, narrowing his gaze but grinning with emanating warmth. "It's a great name."

"Well, _Doctor,_ why the fuck did you not cancel on me this morning?"

Her question was layered with proper confusion, incredulous and lined with budding frustration. His reaction had been something she thought she could comprehend but not quite place. She turned to look at him properly, wondering what was going on inside his head, wondering if what he was doing had been what she had done too, when—

"You work on Jack's show?"

"Yeah," she replied, nodding. "I'm the producer. Right now I'm supposed to be stopping you from breaking his face as he less than subtly asks you why your wife has been"— _fucking_ —"sleeping with another man."

"Hmm," he considered, regarding her with curiosity.

"What?"

"I always imagined you'd be taller."

Stature jokes. Too easy. She was about to retaliate with a selection from her well-stocked library, but then paused, realising what his comment suggested.

" _You_ listen to our show?"

"Yes," he shrugged. "Of course. Wouldn't have agreed to come on otherwise. I hate interviews."

"Goddammit," she groaned. "Really? I actually thought my persuasion skills with your manager were the deciding factor."

"I just really like Jack," he smiled, tilting his head against the wall to look at her. "I really like the show. And I'm _avidly_ invested in The Wedding."

The edges of her mouth started curving, unable to stop herself from reacting to a mention of the event. "It's pretty good, isn't it," she grinned, feeling a small rush of warm humour flood through her veins.

Simply entitled 'The Wedding'—capital T, capital W—and pronounced with an air of superiority and dramatic intrigue, Jack's impending nuptials to his fiancé Ianto had been a running theme of the broadcast since the announcement of their engagement nine months ago; and she and the rest of their Radio 2 listeners had become witness to a small moment on a Thursday afternoon scale into a nationwide phenomenon.

On the one hand, the fact that two of her best friends were getting married was wonderful, but on the other—in the context of simply aiding her task in creating a sustainable, enjoyable radio programme—it was like striking a goldmine.

"I postponed a recording session so I could hear the final drafting of the best man's speech live a couple months ago," John chuckled, tapping long fingers over his mouth. "And the results from the vote for the guest list? That was so… brilliant."

"Jack was furious afterwards," she recalled, smiling. "He literally stormed out of the studio. I had to stop him from charging down to parliament to demand a refund on democracy."

John laughed, sharing in the amusement.

The Wedding had all started innocently enough. The on-air announcement of Jack's engagement was a natural occurrence, followed by a humourous and convoluted story of just exactly _how_ he had managed to get Ianto to say yes. With the evoking encouragement from a guest at the time, Jack had called his mother on air to tell her the news, not a pre-planned idea, just a spur of the moment proposition they had thought would be entertaining. Forgetting that his mother was a regular listener, even across the Atlantic in California and had of course been listening at the time—so succeeded a reprimand of epic proportions in the wake that all of Britain had been privy to the news _before his own mother._ Not exactly a sound argument from her end, but it had made for a hell of an entertaining fifteen minutes.

What had escalated from there was something completely unexpected. From her perspective as the producer, the show was the definition of success; their ratings through the roof and solidly topping podcast charts. Yet as simply a witness to the spectacle, she had spent a lot of time contemplating what it was that made it shape into its current format.

Links were built around the organisation of the wedding itself, exacerbated by Jack's natural tendency for the dramatic. They had called on the public for literally _everything;_ three hours a week for nine months had resulted in an entire wedding planned on air, through phone calls and recommendations, advice and stories from guests and whoever else was around to be drawn into Jack's chaotic world. They had realised rather quickly they would need an actual wedding planner to take over whatever new thing Jack was attaching to the event every week, and then had subsequently done the interview and hiring process in the studio.

Jack, who was charismatic and charming, usually described by the media as 'caressing a line of arrogance without quite being able to cross it', had handled the added limelight of attention with incredible ease, enjoying the rising scale of events. Clara had taken Ianto aside at one point, concerned almost at what this was turning into. Herself and Jack had always striven for audience-based content, but she hadn't comprehended just how quickly the sudden exposure and escalation would be. Ianto had laughed her away, amused at the concern.

 _I know what I signed up for, Clara. It was only ever going to be this._

There had been a period spent in a fiasco with the more conservative media, a fight Jack had taken on with vigorous insistence, refusing to back down as he invited every single journalist he could find into the studio to argue it out in a boiling mass of heated opinion and passionate fury. That had been the turning point, she had thought in the following months. They had come out of it in a sort of victorious avalanche and in doing so had tipped over into something deeper than simple entertainment from a radio show. On the surface it was funny and endearing and ridiculous, but underneath was a story that had exceeded them, and for this moment in time, they had become a focal point for something greater, based solely on an exchange of vows yet to be spoken.

"You sound slightly different in person, Clara Oswald," the man beside her smiled, eyes searching curiously over her face.

Her audible role in the show was minimal, an occasional comment, a question to a guest, a reprimand fired at Jack to keep him in line, warning him about straying into cautious territory. He had a habit of snapping out her name in mock authority when he wanted something, demanding her silence or support. Perhaps her involvement was more prevalent than she realised, yet she was still surprised he knew her name.

"I feel entirely less guilty about missing the interview now," John grinned happily. "Apologies? Not required. The fucking producer is sitting beside me in jail because she can't control herself."

"Are you trying to provoke me?" she murmured in quiet homage to his previous query.

He smiled. "I'm having a fucking awful day."

"Yeah," she sighed, putting her fingers into eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry. About your wife."

Another overused statement. Except, she supposed, there was a chance that maybe she was the first to say it, so it had yet to become tiresome. She couldn't tell.

"Our marriage was over along time ago," John shrugged, shoulders lifting and slowly dropping, a fact to be accepted. "We don't even live in the same house. For appearance's sake we're still together, but in here and in here"—John tapped his fingers to the side of his head, and then into his chest—"we've been over for years."

"Why 'appearance's sake'?" she questioned, confused. "You know divorce has been totally acceptable in this country since Henry fucked Anne Boleyn, right?"

John exhaled in laughter. "How delicately put."

"I prefer to be completely emphatic about these things."

He put his fingers back into his chest. "Am I Katherine of Aragon in this situation?"

"Depends. You want the divorce, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Hmm," she contemplated. "Then no. You're Henry. Your wife has been on a revenge expedition because you've been eye-fucking Jane Seymour in front of her."

He laughed again, bemused. "Wonderful. This explains everything."

"History is always a presage on the future," she murmured, and then looked back at him. "You know, there's never been enough definitive evidence for us to conclude if she was guilty."

He narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell me you think Anne fucking Boleyn was innocent."

"No," she contended. "I didn't say that. There's just not enough evidence either way. Plus, jury selected by the prosecution."

"Fuck off," he grinned. "She was definitely sleeping around."

"I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt."

He shook his head. "People are never so virtuous and honest as they might insist."

"I think you might have a biased opinion based on personal experience."

"Well, exactly. Proves my point. Plus, I have definitive evidence. So does anyone passing a fucking newspaper stand this morning." He sighed, frowning. "She's making our divorce difficult."

"Why? I've known you an hour and I'd rather be sitting in the non-special-privilege cell containing the murderers. I'm not surprised she's been sleeping with your friends."

John gawked at her and then exhaled with startled amazement. Clara felt herself retract with astounded horror at how scathing that had been but kept the expression off her face.

"Fucking hell," he breathed, looking at her with the exact amount of incredulous shock as she felt. "I'm not sure what's happening with me here. I should be unleashing the full extent of the Scottish vocabulary on you. Can you hear yourself talking?"

"Yeah," she frowned, but starting to reconsider her secondary reaction. "No, that was completely uncalled for. I should apologise for that."

"Are you going to?"

"No," she replied slowly. "I'm not in a very remorseful mood."

He shook his head, still overcome with bewilderment. "You are… incredibly candid."

"I just don't understand what the problem is. You're either over, or you're not."

"We're not together."

"Yeah, _so…_ what's the point in hiding it? Break up properly." This discussion was beginning to irritate her again.

"The press will be— _has been_ —cruel."

"So? A couple weeks of the tabloid cycle doesn't seem like much of a sacrifice if you're unhappy."

Long fingers pressed into his bottom lip. "I don't know. I don't want to hurt her," he sighed. "She's been my friend for… a long time."

 _Friend._ Odd way to refer to your wife, she thought, frowning.

"She slept with someone else, John," Clara reasoned, closing her eyes for a moment. "Multiple someones. If I were you, it would be over completely."

"It's a complicated situation."

"No it isn't," she argued. "Unrequited love. You don't want to be with her, so, she's fucking other people. Simple. It's over."

"You're making assumptions."

"I'm just working with the information I've been given. And it seems pretty fucking clear to me." She opened her eyes and looked at him straight. "Happy to give another evaluation if there's anything else you want to reveal about your fucked up life. But I doubt my opinion is going to change."

He frowned, grim. "I should be angry at you for that."

"Yeah, you should. I don't care either way, honestly. I'm over this conversation now. If you want to stay in a broken relationship, then that's your problem. I don't want to hear about it anymore."

A stillness descended between them. He was only a handwidth of space away from her, and even in their silence she didn't feel like they were actually being quiet.

"Play nice," he murmured, uttering the suspended words.

"What?"

"Be nice to me."

She stared at him blankly. "I didn't realise that was your intention an hour ago when you were yelling at me about fucking up your afternoon."

"You did fuck up my afternoon."

" _Because_ I was helping you." She exhaled, scrubbing her eyes. "Look. John. I actually don't want to argue with you, even if I'm giving you that impression, which is highly likely. I really don't want to be here and I'm not exactly in the right state of mind to play happy cellmates while the police are running up a list of charges against me because I hit someone in the face for being an obnoxious prick, okay? I'm now going to have to explain to everyone I know why I'm featured in tomorrow's papers with Britain's national fucking treasure, _and,_ on top of that, I've put my job in jeopardy. And I really like my job. So can you please just sit there and be quiet, or sing one of your songs or whatever the fuck else you can do that won't annoy me. Okay?"

"Clara," he started after a moment. "Are you all right?"

"Can you _stop_ asking me that?" she exhaled, gritting her teeth. "No, okay? I'm not all right. I'm in fucking jail."

"How about you try calming down, for starters."

"You know that sentence has the opposite effect?" She leant forward and put her head in her hands, helpless. "You literally never have to see me again after this. Ever. And you're not obligated to talk to me. So don't."

Silence befell the room once again. She looked down at the concrete floor between her boots. Grey. The most boring shade of grey she had ever seen. Not enough greens and blues. She exhaled with silent, unexpected amusement, closing her eyes and biting very gently into her tongue.

"It's very unlikely the police will press charges, by the way," John said after a few extended minutes.

She sighed. Clearly he didn't understand the concept of _quiet._

"Even if they did and it goes to a judge, there's no way you would be imprisoned. A fine. Painting over graffiti on the M4 overpass. So you shouldn't worry."

Clara remained silent but a flicker of confirming relief made its way through her.

"I'd only be worried if you've been arrested on assault charges before," he added. "A history of violence."

She twisted her head to look up at him through her fingers. "Do I look like the sort of person that goes around punching people?"

He gave her a dry smile.

"I will punch _you_ if you don't answer in the negative."

"I'm going to be honest, Clara. Prison has changed you. You're an entirely different person from the one I knew an hour ago. You'll probably find it hard rejoining civilization."

"I think I'm going to become a violent offender just from being in this cell with you," she muttered, sitting up and leaning back.

"After I press charges against you then," he started, smiling, "what's your prison of choice?"

"What did I _just_ say about conversation?"

He sighed, stretching out his legs and tipping his head back into the wall. "You're being really _boring._ We could be in here for hours. Do you really want to just sit in silence? _"_

"Yes."

"Well I fucking don't. Humour me. It's your fault we're here, so you have to at least talk to me."

"You are really not making it easy for me to want to," she said through her teeth. "Why, anyway? I was under the impression you hated everyone."

"My reputation precedes me."

"I really don't think it does."

He stared at her, a tiny smirk touching his mouth. "Avid tabloid reader, are you?"

She returned his gaze with a look of disgust. "No. Your repute surpasses just yellow journalism."

John ran his thumb across his bottom lip, covering a hint of a smile. "I haven't made it easy, I suppose." His smile extended. "Where are you from?"

"Really? This is what you want to do?"

"Really."

"Blackpool."

"Well, obviously," he replied. "I could have told you that."

"Why'd you ask then?"

"To annoy you. It's the fastest way to encourage a response."

"I'm going to really enjoying dragging you down with me if I get charged."

"I've got a good lawyer."

"Yeah? You're still in this room. Where's he then?"

"She," he corrected, another fleeting smirk informing her he was enjoying the rightful chastising she was giving herself. "Somewhere in the south of France. On a holiday. On a beach."

Clara breathed out in laughter, giving in. "Tower of London."

"Huh?"

"My prison of choice is the Tower of London. That's where we'll be going."

He laughed, warm and encouraging. "Of course it is. You and the wandering ghost of Anne Boleyn. Tourists gaping at you through the bars." A softer smile curved his mouth. "I'd personally like Walter Raleigh's room."

"His name is actually pronounced Raw-leigh," she corrected. "Not Ra-leigh."

"What? No it isn't."

"Yes it is."

"How the fuck would you know that? Phone line to the sixteenth century?"

"It's just a lingering posterity error."

"Fuck off it is."

"It is! The variations with the spelling prove it. And some recorded rhyme King James made about him wouldn't have worked if it was otherwise. So, Raw-leigh."

"All right," he said, retreating. "Calm down."

"I am calm. I've never been more calm in my life."

He grinned suddenly, wide and happy. "Look at us. Talking."

"Arguing."

"Well, it's a start, I suppose." He drilled his fingers on his thighs, maintaining the expression.

Clara swallowed, wanting to look away from his undue glee, but found herself struggling. He had an… _interesting_ smile. There was something genuine in the way it was curving his mouth, pushing lines onto his cheeks and into his eyes. It felt like a rare expression. Unpracticed. She couldn't have known that, but somehow the overt and unintentional vulnerability of it made it seem so. If she had been braver she would have labelled it as _beautiful,_ but it wasn't that kind of day. Or situation. Or anything. Perhaps it was just _fact_ , she contemplated. Like how she had observed him in the police car. Whatever it was, it was distracting, and with effort, she turned away, focusing elsewhere.

"Let's escape," he said as she set her gaze on more concrete.

"What?"

"Escape. Let's make an escape plan. And escape."

She did her best, but couldn't contain her own similar smile as he jumped up and went to the door, tugging on the side.

"I can see it's going really well so far," she smirked, watching him flex and put a bit of weight behind the impossible pull.

He ceased the task and then grinned and leant back against it, crossing his arms. "Let's seduce the guard."

Clara raised her eyebrows. "Who's doing the seducing?"

"We'll ask beforehand who they find more sexually attractive."

"That's our opening statement? 'Hello, we were just wondering which of us you would rather fuck?'"

"Well, I would probably tone down the language. Christ. If that's your idea of seduction, maybe I should be the one doing it."

"What are you going to do? Scowl at them?"

"I can be incredibly seductive," he scowled before dropping the expression to laugh.

"Show me," she replied.

 _Show me?_

"Show you?" The edges of John's mouth began curling, a careful smile this time. No— _dangerous._ This was a dangerous smile.

"Yeah. Show me."

He held her gaze for another moment, expression unreadable. "All right. You're the guard." He tapped on the door. "Come and be all… guard-y."

Clara stood up to trade places with him, slightly concerned at what she was doing. However, she grinned as she began marching back towards him, coming to a halt directly in front of his knees and holding out her hand. "Hello, John. Executioner's waiting. Chop chop."

He managed to last two seconds before breaking into laughter, pushing back against the wall in amusement. "Start again! Fuck. Go back. At least make it slightly realistic."

"None of this is at all realistic."

"I didn't even get a trial," he complained, raising his hands.

"There's no indictable offences in this hypothetical world."

"Jesus. I'm not prepared for your dystopia. Anyway, I thought I was Henry, not Anne."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. I want to be the King."

She crossed her arms. "Don't you think he was… a bit of a dick? Remember that time he executed literally everyone?"

"I _don't,_ as a matter of fact," he grinned back, looking up at her. "What history book have you been reading?"

"A… Catholic one?"

He found that far more amusing than what she had intended, laughing into his knees and then tilting his head back up to watch her closely. "Look, everyone knows that Harry was incredibly handsome, a songwriter"—John raised an eyebrow and pointed at his chest—"and was—"

"An obsessive, self-indulgent, wife murdering man-child," she finished slowly, raising her left hand.

"You want me to high-five you for that?"

"Yes, please," she grinned.

He slapped her palm hard with his own, laughing again and then pointed towards the door. "Okay, okay. I'm ready. Go again. Do your worst."

Clara marched forward, arriving at his knees again. "Afternoon, your majesty. Tower time. Let's go."

"May I ask what the charge is, sir?"

"Mmm… mispronunciation."

John kept a straight face until they reached the door and she mimed sliding it open. He broke when she turned around with an expectant, no-nonsense frown.

"This is a silly game," he smiled, eyes crinkling with amusement.

"Does pass the time, I suppose," Clara replied, exhaling and dropping her look to smile back.

He hummed agreement and then sighed, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He returned a blurry gaze and blinked a few times. "I really like that coat."

Clara smiled in agreement but it dropped away when he remained serious. His eyes flickered over the grey cut, frowning slightly.

"It's a little big on you," he decided, noticing the excessive length at her knees and arms. He reached for her right hand, bringing it towards him and then pushing back the sleeve. He rested it flat against his own between them, stretching her fingers over his palm. Despite the cold, his skin was warm. Clara felt her heart rate increase. He was very close all of sudden.

"Hell of a swing, you know," he murmured, smiling a little.

Tentatively, he reached out with his left and pressed the tips of his pale index and middle fingers into her knuckles. A small sliver of pain shot into her wrist. His eyes flickered to hers, gauging her response before he gently ran his fingertips over the bones to the join of her hand.

"You've only bruised your knuckles," he said quietly, applying pressure again. "No lasting damage."

Biting into his bottom lip, he stared at her hand before frowning. "Then again," he considered with another flash of pressing amusement, "I'm not a doctor."

Tilting forward slightly, he lowered their hands between them and returned to her eyes, twisting her hand so his fingers could wrap around her wrist. Her spine flattened against the cold steel in an attempt to create some distance between them, but he followed her, filling the air she was trying to find. She shifted, trying to reposition herself and break the intense fixation. When she moved, his eyes flashed and like lightning he grabbed her other wrist, restricting any further retreat. Her heart pounded in her chest.

Slowly, cautiously, until his mouth was only inches from her own and she was only just able to focus on his features, he stopped moving. The warmth of his breath brushed over her skin, causing pinpricks of heat to spark and dart through her. The lightest of fingertips grazed along the inside of her palms.

"I like you in my clothes," he whispered.

She fixated on his mouth as his tongue darted over his bottom lip and then she let her gaze travel slowly upwards to meet his eyes, hoping that they would hold something else to give her direction as to where this was going. Still grey in the cold light. Still unreadable. The shifting hue suddenly bothered her, from blue to green in a cycle that made it difficult focus. The world felt slightly removed, blurred at the edges as the cold colours became surreally vivid, the saturation exceeding a normal tone. She swallowed, mouth dry. His forefinger on her wrist glided sideways and then back to its original position, stroking her once with meticulous control.

 _Fucking hell._

He waited until she remembered the necessity to breathe and then he shifted so his mouth was beside her ear. Even through his rough accent the words sounded like silk. "I believe, Clara," he said softly, warm breath brushing across her skin, "I won't be joining _Raw-_ leigh in the Tower after all."

When he drew backwards it was just far enough so she was able to make out his sharp features. Her expression must have betrayed a sufficient amount of _something_ because he suddenly flashed a gleeful grin and threw himself away, his deep laughter filling the small confines of the room.

"How was that?" He was already smirking, pleased with himself.

"Terrible," Clara replied, probably too quickly.

"Bullshit. It was great. I'd be walking out of here in no time."

Clara swallowed hard, attempting to force the shock out of her system and trying to compose herself before her face could reveal anything else. "I'm not actually sure how that leads to you escaping an assault charge."

John sat back down in the corner, stretching long legs down the bench. "I'll seduce the whole damn judicial system if I have to."

"Not like that you won't."

"Oh?" he replied, brows raising, smirking again. "Shall we go again? Perhaps you can give me some pointers."

"No, thanks," she muttered, taking a seat at the opposite end of the bench.

"I'd barely even started," he grinned. "But I suppose there's been enough infidelity for one day. Let's not upset your boyfriend."

"I don't have a boyfriend."

John frowned, disbelieving. "Really?"

"Why? Should I have?" Her tone expressed more irritation than she felt.

He shrugged. "Just assumed."

"Well, bad assumption."

Clara bit into her thumb, focusing on the blank wall in front of her, struggling to calm herself down from what had just happened. If it hadn't been an obvious tell, she would have taken off his coat. Instead, the lemongrass and _something_ scent lingered in her senses, distracting her focus. Her heart was still racing and she felt flushed, skin prickling with heat in the cold environment.

 _Pull yourself together._

This was ridiculous. She was just… It was a stressed-and-tired combination, she decided, trying to focus on something else in the room. The room with nothing in it. Sighing, she brought her thoughts to how long they'd been in here, but found she had lost the ability to judge time.

The hard, uncompromising surface at her back against dug cruelly into her spine and she shifted to readjust her weight. Leaning forward, she put a palm into her eye, cutting the man beside her from her peripheral vision. The familiar ripple of exhaustion began seeping through her body, wiping out the unanticipated reaction as her heart rate dropped back to normal.

Tired. She was unbelievably tired. Another passing regret that she hadn't listened or hadn't asked Janine exactly how long she was supposed to be in here for flickered within. She needed to lie down. Four weeks worth of lying down should solve this sort of exhaustion that threatened constantly to defeat her. She could sense the slight intermittent tremor in her hands, the dull thud in her temples, the strain behind her eyes. Gritting her teeth, she struggled with the refusal to submit to the fatigue, as ever, as always, as every single day of this same _repetitive cycle_ continued. She never won, but kept up the adamant insistence, just for now. She wondered how many more days she had left of thinking this was sustainable. Probably not many. She hummed quietly in submission, accepting her reality was blurring. There was a heartbeat in her ears and the rhythmic, pulsating sound dragged her focus inwards. The fluorescence above hurt her eyes and she closed them against its sting. Head resting in her hands, her consciousness waned with the blocked light and the final threads of her self reluctantly welcomed the dark as she fell silently and then unaware into the depths of perpetual blackness.


	3. Even Such Is Time

**Chapter 3:** **Even Such Is Time**

* * *

Perpetual blackness was a lie, for starters. There was also red, red like blood, red _because_ it was blood. It was escaping from her mouth and running down her cheek. It was hers, she needed it. She pressed her lips together to confine the seeping, dripping path. Her fingers moved and she felt gravel scrape unforgivingly beneath her nails, the tiny stones threatening to remove delicate layers of skin. Ice grew in her chest, a stark contrast to her mouth which was full of heat. She swallowed, wanting to take away the searing cold. Abruptly she remembered what it was and choked, her body spluttering and protesting against its thick life source as the woman with the blue eyes and the beige coat began staring through her like she didn't exist while her own insistent pleas fell on deaf ears—

 _don't you understand it was MY fault_ —

Consciousness rushed at her and she jolted back and awake, the motion making her head slam into something solid, something that might be whitewashed facility concrete— _fuck_ —

She groaned, leaning forward, hand pressing into her hair as pain flooded through her head in likeness to a swinging hit with a sledge hammer. For a second it overwhelmed her, a rampage of agony, desperate and furious. She grit her teeth through the movement, breath catching in her throat as she desperately tried to suppress the further whimpering that threatened to spill from her lips. The initial shock waned finally and she was able to force it back until the pain eased to a dull throbbing.

"Jesus, Clara," a voice was saying. "Okay?"

She brought her hand in front of her eyes, expecting her palm to be covered in blood. She blinked, surprised when it wasn't. Just pale skin. She scrubbed it against her thigh and turned it back over to check again. Nothing.

The voice asked her again and she let the images and the false reflections fade with the relief of consciousness, their impact diminishing as reality spilled into her head.

 _Prison_ — _John_ — _Asleep_

His hand was on the back of her neck, other on her upper arm, trying to get her to turn around so he could look at her. "Clara, are you okay? That was hard enough to give yourself a concussion."

His eyes were swimming with grave concern and she cowered away from it, twisting her gaze back to her hands. She could feel the lingering press of his shoulder into the left side of her head where she had been resting.

"Sorry," she mumbled, embarrassed.

"You don't need to apologise," he replied, confused.

"No, for sleeping on you. I didn't mean to."

"Well, no. I guess that's the nature of being asleep. But you almost fell on the floor so this was the safest option. Almost." He smiled at her gently, concerned still but obviously unbothered by her having used his shoulder as a pillow.

"Late night?"

She shook her head, regretting it instantly. "How long?" She tried blinking away the slight blur, disorientated.

"An hour? Maybe a little more. I woke you up. I think you were having a nightmare. Okay?"

"Ah, no," she swallowed, wiping at her eyes. "I mean, yes. I just..." Her sentence died and she tentatively touched the back of her head, wincing slightly. That was going to hurt for awhile. "Are you cold? Would you like your coat back?"

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "Clara." His eyes watched her examining hand. "Can I—"

"Don't." The metallic taste in her mouth returned. "I'm fine. I would just really like… some water," she breathed. "Should I just bang on the door and yell?"

"Probably. I'll do it. Stay there."

John stood up and did just that—minus the yelling, the noise enough to be answered within thirty seconds. They were offered a bathroom break, escorted down a blank, white corridor, and on return, a plastic jug of water and two cups were set for them.

Clara bit down slightly into the polystyrene rim. Her hand was trembling. Not entirely noticeable, but enough to cause her concern. She gripped the cup a little tighter.

 _Just tired._

"John," she murmured. A headache soared gleefully through the side of her skull. "I'm really sorry about before. I shouldn't have said those things about your marriage. It was cruel. And completely inappropriate. I, um…" She set the cup down on the bench, afraid she might spill it. The water was glacial. She covered her hands with the grey sleeves. "I know it's my fault we're here. There should have been someone at the door, and I shouldn't have reacted like that. I'm not actually a violent person. Usually rather passive. Sort of. But I just, ah… I don't know. I just made a stupid mistake. Sorry."

He nodded slowly, watching her. "You don't need to apologise." He hesitated, frowning like he was confused with himself. "I should be though. I definitely should be."

"Don't bother," she muttered, pressing tentative fingers into her right temple. "No point."

"Why not?"

"I'm not expecting one." She touched her left side. Not that any of this was helping, she would need access to the inside of her skull to scrape out everything that was causing this to make any real improvement.

 _Jesus. Bit morbid, Oswald._

She wondered if she actually had done herself a bit of damage. She felt slightly sick. John was silent, one finger drawing a repetitive line over his knee.

"Why not?" he asked again after a minute. "Why wouldn't you expect me to apologise?"

She breathed out slowly. "Honestly? What difference will it make? Everything you said earlier was true."

"Well, I _want_ to apologise to you," he frowned.

"I don't want it."

"Clara, accept my fucking apology!"

"You haven't even actually apologised though."

"Okay, well—I'm _really_ sorry," he drawled, sarcastic. "Okay?"

"Yeah, sure, I'm definitely accepting that. Thanks."

"I am sorry!" he exclaimed, frustration etching into his tone.

"Oh my god," she sighed, flinching as the decibel of his voice rose to a level that didn't feel great going into her head. "We're fighting about apologising."

He exhaled with furrowed brows, keeping his eyes on her. "How would you feel about me asking to get someone to come and look at your head?"

She stared at him, waiting for him to clarify that sentence into something that didn't equivocally come across as an insult.

"You look sick."

 _Still_ not quite good enough. He realised and amended his suggestion again. "It looks like you could use some proper medical attention. Can I ask someone, please?"

She breathed out slowly, any and all fight leaving her. "No. But thank you for offering. I probably just need to lie down."

"You could lie on this cold, hard slab of metal." He gestured to the bench. "Or… could I interest you in the pleasures of cell-grade concrete?"

"You're going to need to work on your pitch," she sighed, leaning forward to put her head in her hands. It made blood rush in an afflicting way and so she shifted to once again lean against the wall in order to stop it.

"Sure?" he asked again, quieter.

"Sure," she confirmed.

"If you pass out, I'm going to be very _I-told-you-so_ and egotistical about it."

"I won't pass out."

"You're welcome to use my shoulder again. Third option."

"Forward of you," she breathed, smiling wryly.

"Well. It's a very odd sort of a day. Yesterday the most interesting thing that happened was finally finding the battery cover for my stereo remote."

"I lost my Oyster card last night," she replied, pondering. "That was pretty wild. Actually…" She reconsidered, smirking a little. "You probably don't even know what that is. Can't really picture you on the Bakerloo line alighting at Piccadilly Circus."

He exhaled laughter. "Like some sort of normal person? Don't be ridiculous."

Clara met his smile and then blinked away the slight blur her vision was sliding into.

"Can we be friends now?" he asked carefully, a little amused.

"I can't be friends with you."

"Why not?"

"Because you're…" She scanned her eyes over his face, a little taken aback. "... Really famous."

"Feels discriminatory."

"Actually," she frowned, "I've got a very inappropriate and insensitive joke if you want that instead. It might ruin my apology."

"Way you go."

"We can't be friends because your wife might sleep me."

He breathed in further amusement and started chuckling almost silently, closing his eyes in defeat. "Terribly inappropriate. And would have worked better if your name came after J in the alphabet. Another little touch. Shame."

"That is a shame."

"We should workshop these sort of jokes in advance," he suggested. "For maximum devastation."

"Okay," she smiled. "I'm happy to pause and refine my work with you next time." She took a deep breath, looking towards the door and frowning. "We are getting special privileges, aren't we."

"Could be a slow crime day," he shrugged.

"In central London? Nah. Someone will be out there… murdering."

"Well... Fame has its few advantages, I suppose." He stared at the door as well and then looked back to her. "I'd protect you."

"Protect me? From what?"

"If we were in here with other criminals."

She pulled a face, unimpressed. "How? And why would you think I'd need your protection? Earlier evidence suggests the opposite."

"I'd protect you from the murderers."

She paused, narrowing her eyes. "They wouldn't put a murderer in here with us."

"They could. They could put in a famous murderer," he mused, smiling. "Who's your favourite murderer?"

She laughed at the question, a painful experience with the state her head was in. "Mmm. Apart from Henry VIII? Probably three Henrys up." She smiled. "Henry V after Agincourt."

"What, executing a few hundred prisoners? That doesn't count." John's face broke into a grin and he raised his eyebrows. "He was doing his job. That was just… removing a risk."

"Tell that to our neighbours." Clara closed her eyes again. "I always laugh at that part in Shakespeare's Henry when… whatshisname… Exeter. When Exeter tells him York and Suffolk have been killed in the battle and he practically has a fucking breakdown."

John's laughter rang in her ears. "You mean like bringing him a casualty list? Ten thousand dead French names and then there's only two names on the English side of the paper?"

"Yeah," she laughed, opening her eyes. "I like to imagine it like he's given the French list first and looks over it all calm and nonchalant, and then he's handed the English side, realises we've got _two_ casualties and just loses it."

"That is pretty funny actually," he grinned.

"Henry V's my historical crush."

"Henry VI seems more your type."

"Fuck off," she breathed with laughter. "Stop that. Can you please not make me laugh? It hurts my head."

"I'm so funny," he murmured, stretching out his arms in front of him and then returning fingers to thighs.

This time their silence was comfortable and far less hostile than the previous. Clara shut her eyes for awhile, again to block out the harshness of the fluorescent lights.

"Don't the Americans pronounce Raleigh as _Ra_ -leigh?" John disputed suddenly like he had been mulling it over in his head and accidently voiced the question aloud. "The capital _city_ of North Carolina is named after him."

"The Americans are wrong."

"What. A. Disaster." He shook his head. "Someone should tell them."

"You've got a bigger platform than me."

"To be used for the greater good. I'm definitely going to tell them. I'm going to tell everybody."

A smile pressed her lips. "Walter's brought up a lot in your conversation?"

"Not enough, now that I'm thinking about him. He was properly brilliant though, wasn't he."

She nodded slowly and then questioned—"You've read his poems?"

"Yeah," he frowned, blinking. "I have. But I can't recall any which is… That surprises me. I should go back to his work. He was an incredible writer. I love poetry. And verses of writings. I memorise a lot."

"I can read you one of Walter's poems," she offered.

"Now?"

"Well yes, now. When else am I going to do it? We're not going to be in here forever."

"Read implies you need a book. The word you want is 'recite'."

"I don't want an English lesson from you."

"But I'm good with words."

"You're not even qualified to give an English lesson."

He grinned in her direction. "Lovely bit of casual racism."

Clara shrugged, smirking at the opposite wall. _"Friendly_ racism. I'll read it from the script in my head."

"All right," he smiled softly. "Which?"

"Ah, his epitaph. Just prior to the scaffolding."

"All about executions with us today, isn't it," he grinned.

"Mmm," she hummed in agreement. "You know Raleigh… he is someone who definitely shouldn't have been on scaffolding. King James… he was an absolute bitch."

"And dead English Kings," he continued.

"James was…" she started, waiting for him to correct himself, somehow knowing he'd know the half-error.

"Scottish! Damn. The… sixth James of Scotland."

"That's what you've descended from. The man who killed Walter Raleigh. England's greatest knight."

"Shit. That's embarrassing actually."

She laughed slightly, although not for long. The movement made nails jab into her skull. The pain was becoming tiresome. "All right then. Walter's final writings. Perhaps in the dark, in the early hours of his own cell before he was lead to scaffolding. Weak and sick and judged unfairly." She smiled a little. "But... fearless and valiant to the end. To the fate he didn't deserve. Think it'll be all right, even in my Sandgrownian accent?"

"I think it will be perfect," he replied softly, voice low. He put his palms together and trapped them between his thighs, leaning back on the wall behind them and tilting his head to look at her.

Clara took a breath.

 _"Even such is time, which takes in trust  
_ _Our youth, our joys, and all we have,  
_ _And pays us but with age and dust,  
_ _Who in the dark and silent grave  
_ _When we have wandered all our ways  
_ _Shuts up the story of our days,  
_ _And from which earth, and grave, and dust  
_ _The Lord will raise me up, I trust."_

In the sparse cold room the words felt strangely eerie. "It's beautiful, isn't it," she murmured, frowning.

"Yes," he agreed quietly. "Beautiful and very… pessimistic." His expression took on a soft tinge before reconsidering. "No. Is it? Maybe not."

She smiled at him. "Sort of. If you're particular to the idea that Time with a capital T just takes and gives nothing in return," she contemplated. "And we're all deceived by it."

"Yeah. I am. Time is a traitor," he confirmed. "My hair colour proves it."

She grinned. "Fuck you, Time."

"'Fuck You, Time' by Sir Walter Raleigh." He narrowed his eyes. "Well. Clara. We've really given a deep analysis on that one."

"I'm sure Walt would be all right with it. And if not, well… we're arguing against the man who tried to find El Dorado _twice,_ so I think we may have the upperhand."

John hummed in amused agreement. He fell silent but then tilted his head to angle towards her. "It's only ever been my experience that happiness is transient," he said quietly, sighing. "Fleeting moments in time… and the rest is… not."

She put her head gently against the wall and gazed back, holding his eyes in the cold light and blinked slowly. Her chest hurt. "Time gives us youth, and strength, and happiness, and then… takes it all away. Temporary opportunities. We're always so… fooled."

"I've got one up on Time in that case," John replied softly. "I'm not so deceived anymore. Happiness always"—He pressed a finger into his temple— _"feels_ temporary."

"You're doing better than me then. I'm just learning about its fucking deceit," she breathed, holding their fixated gaze.

He stared back at her, the impossible swirl of iridescent greys dragging her in. She could feel every beat of her heart replicated in her head as a pulsing thud in her ears.

"I've forgotten what it feels like," she confessed slowly, the words feeling distant and trance-like.

"Happiness?"

"Happiness."

"Well," he murmured, words barely audible. "Perhaps we both should have listened to Walter earlier and avoided a lot of naive delusion."

He smiled very softly and then turned his eyes away to look up at their window. Clara set her gaze on the door, counting minutes once again. Time passed, but it was again difficult to keep a track of.

 _Traitor._

The sound of the traffic outside was almost hypnotic. She wiped across her eyes, feeling a little strange. _He_ was strange. Everything was strange. Other than the distant cars, it was very silent. She could hear the quiet rush of air as she exhaled, slow and repetitive. Her eyes drifted to her left and she watched John tap his fingers repetitively upon his knee. Pale digits synchronized in rhythm. She glanced up to his face. His eyes were closed, mouth murmuring soundlessly in song. The sight made her smile slightly, blinking at his uninhibited, almost guileless moment. She swore to herself vaguely in her head, cursing at how indisputably beautiful he was. She couldn't exactly place it anymore—why she thought it. He should have looked harsher, with those eyebrows and frown lines. Yet in his peaceful here and now, the opposite was in effect. But it was still just fact, _definitely_ still just a fact.

"How old are you?"

John smiled, not phased at the blunt and interrupting, out of the blue question. He opened his eyes to look at her. "Four one. Forty one. Don't look it though, do I? Not a day over thirty." He ruffled his hand through his messy, silver curls. "In return, I would like to guess your age, but I'm not brave enough. What if I go too high? Disaster."

"Aim low then."

He shook his head with dread, mouth curving up. "Still too risky."

Clara grinned. "Two eight. Twenty eight."

"God you're young," he sighed, not surprised.

"I don't _feel_ young," she frowned, clasping her hands together on her knees.

"Well, you don't look…" He trailed off with laughter, palming his thigh and then turned back to her very unamused expression. "I didn't finish it," he grinned, indignant. "You can't be angry. Silly joke."

She narrowed her eyes, glaring at him.

"Ah, well. We were getting on so nicely, too. I've ruined everything. How can I recover? I'll grovel at your feet. Beg you. Compliment you. Say the word."

"You've never begged anyone for anything in your entire life," she contended, still frowning.

"Quite the assumption."

"You just don't seem like someone who would…" Her brows furrowed further, trying to read him and wondering why she thought that.

"You're right. I haven't." He frowned, tapping fingers over his mouth. "Actually, Clara, small confession—I have. Just once. But a long time ago."

She nodded slowly and then—"Bedroom?"

He almost did a double take as he turned towards her, eyes widening slightly. "You're asking me if I beg in the bedroom? Christ. Who's being forward now?"

"Just covering all basis," she shrugged.

"Hmm," he mused and then lost the considering expression. "Don't know why I'm contemplating. I know I haven't. I'm not sure it's possible."

She could tell instantly he was being honest. He really wasn't the type. "Women," she sighed with mock disgust. "Don't know what they're doing."

He grinned. "What, and you do?"

"I'm going to say yes. Yes."

A small pause passed before he replied. "I am not sure what to say now, to be honest, Clara."

"Well, we could go over some details, but I've only known you for an afternoon. This is full day material."

He laughed and then his expression changed, eyes narrowing. He smiled carefully, meeting her gaze. "I'm the one who elicits the begging."

"Show me."

His mouth dropped open. " _Show_ … you?"

"Yeah."

She let him panic for another moment and then started laughing, compressing it quickly as not to hurt herself. "I'm kidding, you idiot. I am so, so kidding. Your face. Calm down. You look far too worried."

"No I don't."

"I think you might be just all talk."

His concern fell away and he grinned, biting into his lip and looking towards the opposite wall. "Perhaps."

Through the haze in her head, she wondered what the hell she was doing. He interrupted her thoughts, fixing his eyes, voice low and careful.

"I could make you beg me."

"No." She moved her head side to side, very slowly, noticing her heart rate increase.

"Oh yes, I could. I could make you want me so much you'd be on your knees pleading."

"How?"

A slow grin spread his mouth. "You want details? Okay. Firstly—" He leant across to her, drawing closer to her ear. "I would make sure you weren't half-concussed and delirious. Then, perhaps we could proceed from there."

She exhaled laughter as he pulled back with his warm, dark eyes.

"You're right, Clara. This is full day material."

Nodding, she asked her next question before the more conscious part of her brain could protest. This would be fine. She was fine with it. He would be fine with it. "John? Before, when you gave me a third option? Were you serious?"

"Ah… yes. Of course."

"May I? I think I might actually pass out if I don't."

He slid towards her immediately, leaving only a fraction of space between them and pressing his palm momentarily into his shoulder. "All yours."

She hesitated for only a second and then succumbed to necessity, putting the top of her head against his neck and her cheek into his thick black jumper. She adjusted and then realised she was relaxing instantly, the pressure departing from her own shoulders, the weight gone from her neck. She sighed in relief.

"Better?" he asked quietly. She felt him turn his head.

She hummed. "Yeah. Much better."

"I'm the doctor."

Clara closed her eyes and groaned in aversion. "That was awful. You should be ashamed of that."

"I don't make those puns often enough."

"I let you get away with the first one at the door. Never do it again."

"Yessir."

He was very warm. She could feel heat radiating from him through the thick wool against her cheek. She decided that if she had been in a more rational state of mind, this shoulder-thing wouldn't have been happening. He was a stranger. And she didn't even like him. Necessity only.

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yes. Surprisingly."

"Why surprising?"

"You're like a stick insect."

"No I'm not," he growled, indignant.

"If you were an animal, you'd be a stick insect."

"But I workout. All the time. Under this jumper, I'm like steel."

Once again, she somehow didn't doubt it. "Show me."

He started laughing. "Stop it. You're going to get us in trouble."

She lifted her head slightly, wincing at his unintentional movement from amusement. He realised and stilled so she could lower back down.

"That's your fault. Don't make me laugh."

"I'm so funny," she murmured, breathing out slowly. "You're a... _good_ stick insect."

"Clara, adding 'good' in front of it doesn't make it better. And didn't you see me at the door before? I almost ripped it from the wall."

"So strong," she mumbled, smiling. "So brave."

"I'll take your sarcastic compliments, thank you. I'm deprived of them. Best I can get. Stick insects are called Phasmatodea, by the way. Derived from Ancient Greek for apparition or phantom. Because they look like… sticks. Or leaves. Did you know that?"

"No. Why would I know that? Why do you know that?"

"Read it somewhere. There's one in the Natural History Museum that's half a metre long. I haven't been able to see it. But it's there. Their mimicry is amazing. In some species, they'll curl their abdomen to resemble scorpions or ants, _and…_ "

Clara smiled absently, listening to him talk, a slight sense of awe in his voice as he ran through what appeared to be quite the extensive list of facts about the insect. She drifted after awhile, hearing him but not registering the words, more interested in the calming reverberation she could feel in his chest as well as the circling scent of him. Lemongrass and… _undecided,_ still. It was a curative combination, she thought as she breathed in. She stopped fighting against what it was doing, just letting herself be soothed by the aroma and heat of him.

"… and then, the babies literally _eat_ their way out for eight days while it's still alive and th—"

"John, John, woah," she cut in, protesting, snapping out of her drifting state. "What—what are you talking about?"

"Huh?"

"What's being eaten alive?"

"The cockroach. Haven't you been listening?"

"No."

"Oh. I've been telling you about the jewel wasp for the last ten minutes."

"Why?"

"Um… not sure. Just sort drifted there from stick insects."

"No, why is a cockroach being eaten alive by babies?"

"Because they hatched inside it."

"Jesus. That's disgusting."

"You missed the best part. When the mother wasp stings the cockroach through the brain to destroy its escape reflex, chews off its antenna and then _leads_ it back to its burrow like a zombie. Then, it fills in the entrance with pebbles."

"This… this is a really weird topic of conversation."

"Just telling you about my favourite murderer."

"Fucking hell," she laughed. "Could you not pick a human?"

"Animals are usually better. Do you want to hear about the Hercules beetle? It's more the sort of thing I relate to. Can carry a hundred times its own weight."

She grinned, glad he probably couldn't see the expression.

"Or I could be quiet."

"No, tell me about it. I'm listening."

"To be fair, it can barely move when it's got a hundred times its own weight on its back, _but…_ "

Clara had no idea what was going on. She felt like she'd entered an absurd dream-world reality, listening to arguably the most famous musician in the country turn into a Scottish David Attenborough while her head rested on his shoulder and they were locked in a holding cell awaiting to either be sent home or charged with assault.

It didn't feel quite real. Completely surreal, if she was being honest. Unable to do anything about the bizarre circumstances but accept them, she drifted from his continuous words, listening but not really understanding anymore because his comprehensible commentary slid, perhaps accidentally, into something less than intelligible. Something about… gene sequencing and comparing a genetic dataset that spread into an analysis on terrestrial ecosystems… and then something about modular anatomy. She smiled softly with confusion, both at the arcane science but also as to why he knew this.

Eventually, quietly, John finished his dissertation— _and that is why insects are the greatest evolutionary achievement of all time._

She thought he must have assumed she was asleep. Tired, yes, but not enough to allow herself to incite a repeat of her earlier incident. Her breath was steady and even and she supposed she hadn't moved in a while. He was still for a long time and then she watched him stretching and expanding his fingers, running his thumb over his nails and bending each joint like he was ensuring they all worked properly. His nails were oddly perfect, yet she couldn't quite imagine him participating freely in a manicure. There was no blood covering his right hand anymore as there had been in the car. He must have had a chance to wash it off when they arrived. His hands shifted again and he circled the wedding ring on his left. A plain silver band, dulled slightly from age. He turned it around and then twisted it from his finger, setting it in the centre of his palm as if weighing it. Closing his fist, he slid it into the pocket of his trousers with a quiet sigh.

"What a strange day," he murmured very quietly to himself.

Clara shifted her eyes toward the window. The light was gone, replaced with a reflective sheet of black.

The door slid open suddenly, unexpectedly. The sound startled her and she lifted her head, turning to cast a blurry, blinking gaze into the amiable face of her arresting officer.

"Good evening," the woman smiled, pleasant and even perhaps cheerful. "Both of you come with me, please."

* * *

The redheaded woman who was displaying an unapologetic amount of frustration in John's direction made Clara decide she liked her instantly, if only because of how completely contrasting the personality was between them. Brash and loud, she seemed the perfect counterbalance to the reserved and quiet man beside her.

"Why didn't you _call me,"_ the woman growled, clearly irritated. "This morning. _Before_ you left the house." She shook her head, exasperation wrought with underlying concern. "I've had every news outlet in the country asking for a comment. You've got no idea what it's like having Claire Anderson on the phone. The woman doesn't know how to stop speaking. The state of this! And on top of everything, Missy's been pestering me all afternoon. You need to call her before you're back here in visiting hours and attending your wife's funeral."

"Clara, this is Donna," John said quickly, interrupting the rush of reprimand. "She does my PR. And other things."

"He doesn't know how to function as a normal citizen of planet Earth," Donna explained, giving him a firm but fond scowl. "I generally have to look after him."

Donna eyed her with an openly inquizitive gaze. "I'm so sorry you've been dragged into this mess," she apologised, accepting the hand Clara extended.

"I may have been part of the cause."

Donna sighed and shook her head, lowering her voice. "No. Honestly, I'm not even entirely surprised this has happened. He's got a temper. Sure you've realised being trapped in a box with him all afternoon.

"Anything else planned to disrupt my life today, John?" she growled, reaching into her handbag to pull out the phone that had started to shrill for attention. "You'd think one scandal before lunchtime would be enough."

Donna put the phone to her ear and turned away. John's eyes followed her, a tiny smile on his lips.

"Darling," she said back at him, hand covering the receiver. "Do you want me to organise Ian for tomorrow morning?"

He nodded and turned back as an officer arrived with their belongings—her mobile, his mobile, his wallet, his wristwatch, _his shoelaces,_ _for fucksake_ —

"Right, you two," Donna began authoritively, slipping her phone back into her bag. "Listen to me. Were you told what's been happening?"

"Just that there would be no charges," John said quietly. "Free to go."

Donna hummed disapprovingly. "Well, yes, darling, that's why you're out of the cage. The man you assaulted thought for a moment he might like to consider pressing charges against _both_ of you, which is why this has taken most of the afternoon to sort out."

If Clara hadn't been so involved with the headache that was really testing her ability to stand upright, she might have thought Donna was enjoying this.

"He's fine, by the way. Although quite the performance, my god. I went straight to Broadcasting House from the office. Stacey called me, remember her, John? I mean, this is what I'm having to deal with from you here— _Stacey goddamn Hughes_ having to tell me you've been arrested. So, somebody had then _of course_ called an ambulance for god's sake, I arrive at the same time—police everywhere—Mark and Tania from the Times wanting statements while I had Sarah on the phone in France, on her _holiday,_ needing to speak with your lawyer, Clara—Janine—lovely woman. Tracked her down before she arrived here. Anyway, by the time the police were done with the recordings for evidence, it was already two, and when it turned out your man's been deemed as perfectly fine by the paramedics, he's insisting that he's got grounds for ABH! I mean, _Christ,_ he's got a blood nose and that's it. The way he was carrying on, you'd think you two had been there with a cricket bat and a knife.

"You've got Janine to thank that the two of you aren't spending the night here," Donna continued, nodding to Clara. "She certainly knows how to—excuse the expression—lay down the law. Put him right into place. Would have been earlier but his lawyer was _late,_ for starters. Traffic on the M1. We've offered to pay damages for his camera just to speed proceedings up. Wasn't really necessary but saved us what I imagine was an hour of listening to him shout nonsense. He won't be pursuing this anything further."

"'We' as in 'you'?" Clara gestured between the two of them. "If so, no, _I_ should be doing that seeing as I broke it."

"I'm paying for the camera, Clara," John cut in, abrupt. "Leave it."

"Don't concern yourself about that," Donna told her gently and then turned back to John with a disapproving look. "We've got a special account set up for this sort of thing.

"You don't make it easy, do you?" Donna continued, tapping a finger into his chest. "Next time—" She frowned like there was a possibility of there being a next time. _"Next_ _time,_ you ask for a representative. Answering questions without a lawyer." She shook her head in disgust. "I can imagine it didn't stray far from the usual operation. Scowling and an attempt to walk out the door, was it? Like I didn't have enough already to deal with this morning from Jeremy. Christ. That man. John, we're going to have a big problem with River. I've already spoken to Deborah in town. She's furious. You know, I have tried and tried to be reasonable with that woman these last couple of months, but honestly, I'm not sure even I can handle another—"

Donna sighed, cutting herself off. "Look, let's not worry about that now, we'll go through a plan tomorrow. More importantly, I hope you've used this time to think of something constructive to tell Louis. Can you imagine how he's reacting to this? He's practically ecstatic."

"Oh, god," John breathed, pulling a face in slight horror.

"Exactly," she growled, crossing her arms.

"Donna!" came a cry of delight from behind them. Jack. Clara wasn't at all surprised with the acquaintance. He had a disconcerting ability to be familiar with half of London.

"Well, well, well," Donna drawled, mock distaste molding her expression. "Look who it is. Man of the hour."

"Aren't you looking… gorgeous," Jack grinned, eyes narrowing with shameless flirting.

"Oh, stop it," she scowled, batting at his arm.

Jack laughed and pulled her in to plant a kiss on her cheek, his amiable smile matching his bright eyes. "Bit rough out there, isn't it?"

"Absolute nightmare. I'm getting our car sent around the back. I think there's a commemorative plaque on the gate for George Michael."

The officer that had brought Jack in cackled and then abruptly cut himself off as he realised it probably wasn't appropriate. Donna's phone began ringing once again and she turned away to answer it.

"And here's my favourite criminal." Jack took the few steps separating them and pulled her into a crushing hug. She breathed in his familiar scent, the enclosure of his warm, secure arms, and found herself relaxing in sudden relief.

"Okay?" he murmured into her ear, and then pulled back to get a response, concerned eyes scanning across her face.

"I'm fine," she assured him with a weak smile.

Jack's hair was windswept and his cheeks flushed red from the cold outside. He spent another moment lingering with his attention, and then turned away, reaching out his hand in greeting.

"Doctor," Jack smiled. "It's lovely to meet you."

"My apologies," John replied, quiet and pensive. "I'm sorry about the interview."

"Forget it. Nothing to be sorry for. Although you on the other hand"—Jack turned to Clara with a sly smile—"owe Rory an extra Christmas present."

Donna put a hand on John's forearm, phone still pressed against her ear. "We should go, love. I'd prefer you weren't photographed here.

"Where's your car?" she directed at Jack, authoritative. "Have you got a driver? Send them down Durrell and there's a closed entrance with a gate."

"Amy's got the car," Jack explained quietly to Clara, pulling out his phone to use Donna's advice. "She's in a full blown Scottish rage, too. Couldn't get a park out the front because of the crowd. Thought she was going to plough through and finish what you started." He smiled at her. "She's staying with you tonight, by the way. I wouldn't bother arguing."

Jack ignored the weary sigh of protest. They were coddling her.

He laughed as Amy answered the call. "No, she hasn't. Can't see anything obvious anyway." Jack directed his attention to her. "Amy wants to know if you got a tattoo."

Clara rolled her eyes and turned away, letting Jack arrange the next moments of her surreal afternoon-now-evening. An officer arrived to escort the four of them through another expressionless path of blank corridors. Donna and Jack's unceasing and lively conversation filled the space. Her eyes fixed on the back of John's head and her thoughts circled the conversation they'd had. She had absolutely no idea what to make of it, or of him.

The cold and the dark outside hit her unexpectedly, sharp and biting, cutting through her thin shirt with cruel persistence. She'd returned the coat in the holding cell and now felt exposed without the comforting warmth of his clothing. She tried to shake the sensation away, but the lingering feeling remained, accentuated in its absence.

Jack ushered her into car before she had even realised she hadn't said goodbye— _goodbye, thank you for accompanying me to prison_ —

Instead, Jack called his own goodbyes and slammed the door, disappearing into the night. A transfer into the care of her next friend, the ever-worried chaperones. Her friends with their continuing lives, events to attend, lovers to engage. And always with their relentless concern, shared in the moments they didn't think she could see. Her chest tightened, guilty and culpable, desperate to accept their attentions and their kindness, but helpless to stop herself resisting against it.

Clara allowed Amy's warm embrace, shared in her infectious laughter, and was then simply driven away from this very strange day.


	4. Now That You're—

**Chapter 4: Now That You're—**

* * *

"He was… fine, I guess."

"What does that mean?" Jack persisted, frustrated at the lack of information he was receiving. "You shared a cell for five hours. What did you talk about?"

"I don't know, Jack," Clara sighed, trying to deflect him. "Not much."

"I want _details,"_ he complained, pushing away a pile of folders so he could lean back against the desk.

Jack and his tenacious perseverance. He was doing a rather good job of unintentionally replicating the level of interrogation she had gone through with the police.

"He likes the show."

"What?" Jack's face shifted, lighting up like a firework. "He listens?!"

"Yeah," she replied, smiling at his childlike excitement. "He thought our use of democracy last month was really good. Actually, his adjective of choice was 'brilliant', so there you are."

"No! Well fuck me. That is the best news I've had all week."

She decided not to make it clear that the scheduled interview hadn't been won because of her formidable skills of persuasion, but because of Jack's likeability. She wasn't sure his ego would survive it.

A sly smile spread across her friend's face and he drummed his fingers against the desk. "Gorgeous, isn't he?"

Clara smiled, busying herself with the folders in front of her. "He is an incredibly good-looking man, I'll admit."

"Are you… blushing?" Jack pressed his foot into her chair, spinning her around so he could search her face. "You are!"

"I'm not. Calm down."

"Look at me, Clara," he said seriously.

She rolled her eyes as he leant down towards her, foot firmly on the chair so she couldn't move. "Get off, you idiot."

"It's called the twenty four hour rebound," he explained, narrowing his gaze. "Wife fucks your friend, you fuck—" Jack crouched in front of her, hands on either side of the chair arms. "My goddamn producer."

He played his game for another moment and then let her go, sitting back on the edge of her desk, expression falling as he addressed the newspaper he'd brought into the room.

They were in her office at the studio; Jack's appearance in the doorway after lunch not entirely unexpected, even though he had no obligation to be in the building on a Friday. While he had continued his questioning, she ran through the rest of his busy schedule in her head—the chat show, whatever else he was filming this week, media engagements for The Wedding, the population of greater London that he hadn't yet flirted with, the contract he was supposed to already have read, signed, and handed back to her last Monday…

Jack did television, a background in journalism but with a rise to fame in a large capacity from prime-time commercial radio and then subsequently on the small screen, presenting and hosting, a sought after personality before acquiring his own chat show. As his television work had become more prominent over the years she had known him, Clara had convinced her friend without much coaxing to accept a smaller, less demanding role with her at Radio 2 the previous year, the initial plan being that they could start small and see what happened. With Jack already in the public eye and herself expecting the show to be at least be somewhat successful based on what she knew Jack could do, the extent of just how much she had underestimated her friend's abilities had almost completely taken her by surprise. The Wedding had simply blown that initial plan completely out of the water. The show had been running since the beginning of the year and already they were huge, demand far exceeding their weekday afternoon slot.

Her long-term goal with Jack had always been a less than subtle attempt to persuade him into a more prominent role. She wanted Saturday mornings, the premier breakfast radio position, or alternatively, depending on what they could decide for show content, Friday nights. Jack was still hesitant about it, not because he wasn't interested, but because of the added workload. Even so, they were now in a perfect position now to pursue the idea, herself already in preliminary, informal discussions with her bosses as the end of the year drew closer and contracts began to be considered.

Clara had spent the morning with those specific higher powers and a selection of the legal team. A debrief accompanied with coffee made by someone who knew what they were doing. She was attentive at the meeting, calm and professional as reassurances were delivered, but she was advised— _cautioned_ —not to administer any further instances of aggressive behaviour on anymore unassuming members of the media.

She could tell by their less than inconspicuous sympathetic expressions that they were giving her leniency. And her refusal at their proposal, turned down immediately, was met with a subtle hint of relief. Hesitant in tone, they were only asking again because it was the appropriate thing to do, not because they wanted it. At her own doing, she was up to her neck in organising the station's most anticipated event of the year.

 _Are you sure about not taking a period of leave?_

The timing would be incredibly inconvenient if she had said yes.

Jack brandished the newspaper in his hand. "She went to town on you," he said gravely, pausing to emphasize his point. "Clara, I don't just mean she went to town, I mean she went to _fucking_ town. She went to town, took a bulldozer down the main street, set the mall on fire and shat in the water fountain."

"All right, all right," she cut in, pulling a face. "I get it. I already know she hates me."

"Front page though," he pointed out, impressed in a purely geographical way. He slapped it down in front of her. "Look. Even the Tory propaganda has been sidelined."

"Christ," she sighed as her eyes fixed on the cover. _That-bitch-Sharon._ A picture of the two of them being led away by the police accompanied the headline.

 ** _ABUSIVE AND UNHINGED: The Doctor Arrested As Questioning Turns Violent_**

"I don't actually want to read this, Jack," she complained pushing the paper away in disgust.

He laughed. "I'll read it aloud then, shall I?" He didn't bother acknowledging her interjection, just continued on, voice sliding expertly into newsreader mode. _"Spectators looked on in horror in the late hours of Thursday morning as a violent double assault was carried out by multi-award winning artist the Doctor [John Smith], and Radio 2 producer Clara Oswald. Arrests were made after both Smith and Oswald engaged in an attack on free-lance photographer Aaron Leeds who was present at the scene. Smith, already making scandalous headlines in light of wife of 13 years, actress River Song's recent engagement in the shocking affair with Smith's manager, Jeremy Days_ —

"Stop," she groaned with resentment. "Jesus, _they_ were the ones that published the photos in the first place! Fucksake."

" _As journalists posed questions to Smith outside Broadcasting Hou_ — _"_

"Jack, seriously," she cut in, swiping at the paper. "I don't want to hear it."

"Wait, okay, let me just read you this bit near the end," he compromised, holding it out of her reach. _"A witness at the scene told reporters, "I'm absolutely disgusted by their actions. I'm sick of these celebrities acting like they can get away with murder and not face the consequences—"_

Clara ripped the paper from his hands and proceeded to tear it in two, revelling in the satisfying sound of destruction.

"I was going to frame that!" Jack shouted, jumping up in protest.

"I'm sure you can get your traitor hands on another one," she growled, dropping the halves on the desk.

"You're right," he smirked, instantly halting his outburst and giving her a pleasant smile. "There's more copies in my office."

"Oh my god," she groaned, staring down at the torn article. "'Get away with murder'?"

Jack's face cracked into another grin and he threw his head back in laughter. "I know! What the fuck was that about? The audacity of the woman. That's not nearly one of the worst bits, either."

Clara sighed, raising her eyebrows in weary defeat.

"Did they talk to you about this upstairs?" Jack asked, pointing to the ceiling.

"Not specifically. Beth said she'd deal with it."

"It's almost libellous," he shrugged. "If I were you, I'd be talking to the lawyers. This could end up being more damaging than you know."

"I don't see how," she shrugged. "There's nothing in it. We weren't charged."

"Yeah, but who knows what else this bitch is going to write though? You know she's been waiting for something like this for months. The only way you could have handed her a better story would have been to actually murder someone. I wouldn't put it past her to leave it alone. Could do a bit of damage."

"She's been waiting for _you_ to fuck up, Jack, so she could blame it on me. I wouldn't worry."

"I'm not concerned about me, you idiot," he laughed. "It's your name on the page. But I'm gonna spin it. Well, spin it back to what it actually was, anyway."

"Jack," she groaned, shaking her head.

"No, Clara, seriously," he expressed, sitting back down on the desk. "We need to address this on the show next week."

"I just want it to go away, Jack."

"It will. Look, you're right—there's nothing there in the first place. But you put the Doctor's name and 'arrest' in the same paragraph and of course it's going to be news. You don't think it would be weird pretending it didn't happen? Yesterday's show was trailed all week with his interview and we've been talking about him since September."

"I don't want to escalate it. It's about him too. Not just me."

"I don't know, Clara," her friend sighed, putting a hand through his dark hair. "I just want to be honest about it. It's the backbone of our operation here, right? And the reputables have it straight so it's not like I'm the lone voice.

"Let's get the Doctor back in here," he urged. "Now that you're—" He mouthed the word and she glared at him. _Fucking_. "—I'm sure you can persuade him.

"Come on," he pressed at her skeptical expression. "It'll be great radio. Clear all the boring formalities with upstairs and they'll go crazy for this."

It would be good radio. Completely at their expense of course, but Jack was well aware of that.

"Please let me at least destroy this bitch on air." He put his finger into the paper.

"Jack, do you not remember what happened last time? This isn't the ideal moment to be starting a war."

"I do, and it was brilliant," he said firmly, crossing his arms.

"I was lucky," she reminded him. _"We_ were lucky. And we won't be again if you exacerbate. We've got other things to focus on anyway."

"Just ask him," Jack suggested, refusing to give up. "Test the waters. If he says no—fine. I'll drop it."

"Okay, okay," she conceded. "He'll have to be fully onboard though. I'm not having him walk out on this interview."

"Have you listened to yesterday's show?"

Clara shook her head. "Not yet. On my list for this afternoon."

"It went well, considering." Jack smiled, running fingers over his jaw. "I mean, I was fantastic, naturally. Complete professional."

"Course you were."

"All by myself with a microphone," he sighed, dramatic, regretful. "My esteemed guest in jail. My producer in jail."

Clara scoffed. "That's your preferred state. Alone and no one telling you what to do."

Jack laughed. "Getting yourself arrested was the best thing you've ever done for my career."

She rolled her eyes and nudged his leg with her foot.

"Rory did a great job, by the way. Apart from the heart attack he had when I told him he had twenty minutes to organise a whole new show by himself." Jack laughed, revelling in the memory. "Did you see him this morning? He managed to get Hayley Reecen to come in for the last hour. That was well done. She was fantastic. And… we did a solid follow-up link with some of the bar staff we hired, too.

"And you know what, Oswald," he announced proudly, "I went for the entire three hours without once mentioning anything about you being a criminal."

"Well done, Jack," she smiled, amused. "I'm very proud of you."

Jack spent a moment in pensive thought and then his gaze turned incredulous. "Are you seriously telling me that you didn't exploit five hours of alone time with _the Doctor?_ He wrote Loveland! You could have asked him anything! God, if that had been me…" Jack trailed off, an absent gaze on the far wall.

"I'm not you, Jack," she reasoned. "And he lives up to his antagonistic reputation."

 _Not quite the truth._

"Well, anyway," Jack sighed, uncrossing his arms. "Wasted opportunity or not, it's still a great story." He took one half of the newspaper and balled it in his fist. It hit the side of wall and fell into the rubbish bin.

"What are you doing this weekend?"

"Lying low," Clara returned cynically, drawing her eyes away from the bin. All of a sudden she felt incredibly tired, exhausted again. Her head was better, just tender. The granted hours of sleep thankfully wiping away the immediate problem, but fatigue persisted to remain.

Jack smiled, a slow and hesitant expression that turned sad as he continued watching her. "I worry about you, Clara," he said quietly, turning slightly towards her.

"Don't," she murmured, feeling the immediate prickle of heated tears form in her eyes at his change of tone.

Jack reached out his hand and slid it to the back of her neck, gently bringing her forward so he could bend and press a kiss into her hair.

"Ianto and I are gonna visit on Sunday, okay? You walking fucking disaster," he added softly, waiting for the insult to have the desired effect. Blurry eyed, Clara let herself smile and nodded.

"Until then"—Jack tapped his forehead against her skull—"look after yourself."

Alone again, Clara sent her obscured gaze towards the bright window, trying to enjoy the feeling of scrunching paper and ink between her hands.


	5. A Prime Ministerial Alliance

**Chapter 5: A Prime Ministerial Alliance**

* * *

 _Doorbell._

Clara groaned aloud, with anger, into her pillow before dragging herself from the tangled sheets as the bell chimed out again. The stairs felt precarious in her waking state and she ripped the door open, ready with an onslaught of reprimand to administer to whoever thought it was a good idea to disturb her at this hour.

"Doctor?" she uttered in a startled stupor, the lecture dying in her throat.

"What happened to 'John'?"

Faced with the completely unexpected, her brain took a further moment to begin drawing out of its sleepy confusion. John was in fact standing in front of her, tall and striking in front of the blue sky framed behind him.

"It's incredibly early," Clara replied blankly.

"It's past nine," he frowned, circling a hand around his wristwatch.

"Yeah, but... it's Saturday. Literally no one is awake."

They both eyed a runner who was making his past on the footpath below and then a couple getting out of a car across the road.

"Literally no one," she repeated slowly. She stared at the man on her doorstep in bewilderment.

"It's very cold," he mentioned conversationally.

It _was_ cold. She gazed at his clothes—black jumper and black jeans, covered in the same open grey coat that had kept her warm almost forty eight hours ago. He didn't look particularly uncomfortable in the freezing temperature.

"That's because your jumper has holes in it."

He glanced down to his chest, lifting a hand to inspect the knitwear. "So it does." A white t-shirt beneath accentuated the speckled imperfections.

"Clara, as much as I'm enjoying just standing here on your doorstep, you are going to fucking freeze if you don't go inside. May I come in?"

There was the problem, she registered with a start. She noted her clothing— _complete lack of clothing_ —to be more accurate. Her door answering attire extended only to a long t-shirt and socks pulled up her shins. Wonderful. Great. Thankfully, it was too cold to even be properly embarrassed.

"Yes…" she trailed away. "Of course. Come in."

Clara took a step backwards and held the door open, letting him over the threshold.

"Just, ah, come through here." She ushered him down the corridor and into her living room, eyes frantically scanning the room for anything incriminating. She had no idea what she was looking for but Amy had been here within the last twenty four hours and that was always a cause for concern.

"Can you just give me… ten minutes? I will be right back."

He nodded and she walked with calm grace until she was out of his eye-line and then raced up the stairs, more precarious now in haste. She jumped into the shower, cursing at everything. In record breaking time, she dressed and ran a blow dry through her hair. She paused at the mirror, hovering with an eyeliner pencil centimeters from her lashes.

 _What's all the fuss about, Oswald?_

She forced her unwelcome subconscious aside, applied a minimal amount of makeup, and made her way back downstairs. It was a gorgeous morning in her living room. The third in a row. In England, in winter. It was basically a miracle.

Sunlight split his face in a diagonal line. Eyes dark in the shadows before he shifted and saw her.

"I'm sorry," he apologised politely. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"No, it's fine," she replied quickly, shaking her head. "I should probably get up earlier."

John snapped the book in his hand closed and returned it to the shelf behind him. "So," he started, fixing her with an expectant stare. "Here's a question. Why does Sharon Lowles hate you so much? I've never been so mistreated by the press."

Clara felt her heart drop, guilt flooding through her in a hot wave.

 _Shit._

"Ah, yeah…" she trailed, wincing slightly. "She doesn't like me."

"That's an understatement. It reads like a personal attack. At my expense." John crossed his arms. "Donna wants my lawyer involved. I said I would talk to you first."

 _Fuck._

Sighing, she ran an apprehensive hand through her slightly wet hair. "I, ah... I got her fired from the Telegraph. About four months ago."

John raised an eyebrow, requesting for more information.

"She was one of the journalists involved in… well, Jack still insists on calling it Gay-gate," she smiled wryly. "I suppose he gets naming rights. I personally called it The People Versus The Sub-People. You remember, right? If you were listening back then?"

He nodded, expressionless. She paused, wondering whether she should be telling someone she barely knew this story. He could do anything with this information. Yet something about his formidable gaze made her want to be honest with him, knowing he wouldn't accept a half-truth or half-explanation.

"Sharon… She was writing opinion pieces, that sort of thing. The _wrong_ opinion, in my opinion. Jack and I invited her to the studio to interview. We take our 'balanced and impartial here on Radio 2' responsibilities very seriously." Another wry smile. "Being on our show is good publicity. We get big ratings so it wasn't difficult getting her to agree. It wasn't live, just a pre-record. She knew what she was coming up against and she's a good journalist, to be fair. Knows how to… just keep herself from crossing the line. The free-speech into hate-speech line."

Clara sighed. "But Jack…" She shook her head, frowning. "He's better. He wants people to be honest with him and has this practiced way of being patronising when he knows they're not. He knows how to... get under their skin, just antagonise them enough to be able to sort of lead them unintentionally into a dangerzone.

"He riled her up and it got pretty heated. You know how he has that give-me-your-actual-fucking-opinion attitude? Well, it worked on her. She didn't realise what she was saying quick enough. When she did, it was over of course and we had to agree not to use the interview.

"But I, ah… I was so angry. I sent the interview to her editor and signed my name under it. We couldn't air it, but the suggestion of accidental leaking was obviously there. The threat was too much for them. I think they really wanted to start distancing themselves from it all because of how much attention Jack was getting. I mean, it was such a stupid decision on my behalf. It could have easily swung the other way. Easily could have lost me my job, and worse, sunk the show. I was lucky. And it felt fucking great at the time." She smiled weakly. "But this now is… well, obviously it's revenge. I'm really sorry. Of course I'll talk with your lawyer if there's anything I'm supposed to do."

John exhaled heavily, his gaze stoney, frowning. "That… is quite the story. Blackmail."

"I'm not proud of it. I just…" Clara sighed again. "Couldn't let her get away with it."

John crossed his arms, eyes narrowing, and then a slow smile began shaping his mouth. "I'm messing with you, Clara," he grinned, smirking suddenly at her remorseful expression. "I don't care about the article. I was just curious. It's not everyday I get accused of thinking I can get away with murder. Relax."

She stared at him in outright confusion, his amusement completely unexpected.

"Probably could though, don't you think?" he continued with his spreading grin.

"What?"

"Get away with murder."

She paused. "Depends on who you murder. You might be doing everyone a favour."

"Well," he replied, contemplating. "I suppose I can think of a few candidates."

"This unannounced visit is getting a sinister vibe, if I'm being honest," she smiled, calming as she realised he wasn't really annoyed or angry at her. "For example… how do you know where I live?"

"Donna," he shrugged. "She knows everything."

Clara nodded slowly. "Okay…"

"She is absolutely loving this," he smiled, unfolding his arms and taking a few steps in her direction, trailing his fingers over the back of the couch. "The more drama, the better. She'll probably send you flowers and a card when I tell her this is happening because of a personal feud between you and someone at the Mail."

"Right." She was still a little stunned, not entirely sure what to say. "Um… Would you like a cup of tea?"

He paused his slow advance and gazed at her for a moment, leaving her waiting before answering. "Yes."

She swallowed, turning towards the kitchen to flip the switch on the kettle. "Ah, how do you take it?"

"No milk. Sugar. A lot of sugar."

"Two?"

John shook his head and Clara frowned slightly, bemused. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Just start with two, and then if you want to add more, go right ahead."

"Are you being serious?"

"Very," he smiled, turning away to wander to the glass doors that opened out onto a small back lawn, peering curiously out at the grass that almost needed cutting, and over the fence to the tops of her neighbour's houses.

She rented in Belsize Park, far enough from Hampstead to be affordable, but only because she knew the owners—old family friends who were happy and incredibly generous to give her a rate she could sustain. Even on her substantial salary she would have been hard pushed to even consider anything in this area by herself.

Too astounded to mind if he noticed, Clara stared at him openly, frowning with slight incredulity while the water boiled.

"You're staring at me, Clara," John informed her, moving away from the windows with small smile on his lips.

"Yeah," she admitted.

He raised his eyebrows.

"You're just… really, _really_ famous."

"Is that a problem?"

"No," she replied. "It's just… a little surreal, I guess. Which is stupid, sorry. You're just a person."

 _A really famous person._

His eyes crinkled with amusement. "You didn't seem to mind when you were calling me an arsehole."

"I didn't mean that," she said quickly. "I'm sorry."

He gave her a slightly disbelieving look.

"Actually, yes I did mean that," she amended, frowning. "You deserved it."

"You've already done your apology." He smiled and turned away, taking a seat on the couch. "Just make me tea, Oswald."

Clara stared at his mischievous, sly smile while he purposely busied himself with the book on the coffee table. She blinked in confusion at her resulting placid reaction.

 _Come and make your own tea._

She couldn't say the words and just watched herself pour hot water into his cup instead. Closing her eyes, she added the extra requirements.

"Here's your sugar tea, you fucking weirdo," she muttered under her breath, sliding it onto the table and then sitting in the adjacent seating.

John gave her another sly grin and she watched him with slightly morbid fascination as he took a sip. "Too much sugar," he critiqued, screwing up his face.

"Really?"

"No," he smirked, dropping the expression and taking another. "Could have had more. But it's fine. Not bad for a first attempt."

An irritated meow interrupted them and a large, flat faced cat leapt onto the couch, headbutting John's hand for attention.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Clara exclaimed, mouth dropping open in disbelief.

John looked at her surprise with confusion, complying to the cat's persistent nudging. "What's her name?" he asked, running his fingers through dark grey fur. "Or his…"

"Margaret Thatcher 2.0," she replied absently, staring in bewilderment at the impossible spectacle.

Clara ignored John's resounding, half-choked-on-tea laugh. "Watch this," she announced, setting down her cup on the table. Carefully, she began extending a slow hand. The cat put her ears back as the fingers grew closer and her jaw opened slowly, baring sharp teeth and emitting a low, ominous hiss. Clara retracted before the physical violence could begin.

"She hates literally _everyone._ Especially me."

"Maybe naming your cat Margaret Thatcher had a damaging effect on her confidence in you."

"She's not my cat, I just have her now. Her name used to be Sparkles. I didn't think it suited her iron bitch personality."

John's captivating laughter filled her senses again but his eyes were different this time, searching and perceptive. Regarding her with that dark intensity that made her feel like he was delving inside her head. She looked away, finding it slightly disconcerting.

"Look." She pulled up the sleeve on her left arm to reveal a set of scratches, fading now but still overly visible. "I wasn't pouring the biscuits out of the box fast enough."

He scratched Margaret Thatcher behind her ears and Clara was disgusted to hear a distinctive purring.

"So misunderstood," he sighed, directing his speech to the furry, ornery animal. "Aren't you, Maggie?"

"I used to be skeptical of reincarnation."

John smiled carefully and went back to his tea, one hand tracing patterns through the soft fur. Well, it looked soft. She had never had the chance to confirm the theory.

"Probably knows I voted for her back in the eighties," John mentioned vaguely.

"Fuck off you did," she laughed into her cup.

John's face split into a wide grin. "No, I definitely did not." He bent closer to the cat's ear to whisper. "Just kidding. I did. I love you."

Clara laughed again, warm amusement rushing around her chest.

"Is your head okay now?" he asked suddenly, looking back up.

"Huh?"

"From the wall."

He indicated at the left of her skull and she touched her hair automatically. "Oh. Right. Yeah, fine, thanks. Just bruised."

"Good," he nodded slowly. "What about"—he pointed to her right hand—"your punching fist?"

She nodded. "Is _your_ hand okay?"

"Completely. I do this all the time. Everyday. Pow…" He made a fist and gently connected it to his jaw. "In my head, I've got the world record for most punches delivered to the media."

"I'm not sure that's very healthy."

"No," he sighed. "But it seems to help."

John put his cup down, tapping his free hand on the edge of the couch by his knee. "I thought we could reschedule," he said bluntly. "For the show. Only if you and Jack would like to, of course."

"Of course we would like to," she said, taken aback he was suggesting it. "Jack was pestering me yesterday about asking you."

He smiled, a bit rueful. "I have to organise these things by myself now."

Clara ran through her mental schedule. "Do you have a preference for when? We already have guests set for next week. But I could shift them easily enough. Otherwise the following week?"

That would be far better for ratings she realised, running through the timeline. "That's the last show before The Wedding broadcast on Saturday. How about that?"

"Following week is fine." He nodded slowly, reclaiming his tea. "How is The Wedding going to work?"

"Good fucking question," she breathed, smiling softly. "It's the biggest logistical nightmare. Possibly of all time. In the history of humanity."

"It's going to be broadcast live, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Ceremony live and then the reception and speeches are being recorded separately, and we'll incorporate them into the show somehow when Jack gets back."

"How do you seamlessly run a stagnated event?"

"Another very good question," she grinned. "It's going to be like an awards show. We're getting Mickey Smith to host the actual thing on the day. Interviews, chat, etcetera. It's…" She laughed. "We're expecting huge crowds and Jack wants his goddamn literal red carpet, so that's happening. There'll be live video for the crowd and sound systems blasting everything within a hundred mile radius. I'm not entirely sure who this crowd is going to consist of because Jack's invited literally all of London to the inside event."

"Donna's going."

"Is she?" Clara raised her eyebrows.

He nodded. "She's known Jack for years. But I think she knows everyone in London, too."

Clara nodded in return, not that surprised. "So… Rory and I have our final two weeks to finish arranging everything. We don't want to be doing anything on the day because we'd like to attend our best friends' wedding without having to tell Kevin to turn up the microphones."

"Royal wedding size?"

"Bigger," she grinned. "I did not think nine months ago I'd be telling Alison-From-The-Council to block off three roads so Jack could parade down a carpet. I'm a little concerned he's forgetting it's his wedding and not a chance to show-off in front of hundreds of people."

"I think it might be both," he smiled. "I'm yet to listen. To yesterday's show, I mean."

"He promised me he was very restrained. No mentions of our criminal activity, apparently."

"You haven't heard it?"

She shook her head. "Was on my list for yesterday but I ran out of time. I work on other programmes during the week, too. I had to budget this month's morning shows before…" She trailed off slowly. "Sorry," she frowned. "There's some boring information for you."

"No it isn't," he replied, reaching forward to set down his cup again. In his lap, Margaret Thatcher growled with displeasure until he returned to his attentions.

"Clara?"

She lifted her eyes from the cat to him.

"I'm actually here because I want to apologise."

"Ah, John, it's—"

"No, please, just listen. I didn't apologise on Thursday. I know you said you don't expect one, but I expect myself to offer you an apology. And I want to." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "So… I am so sorry. For how I was at the beginning. It wasn't your fault we were arrested. I don't really know why I kept saying that. You struck out because, well…" His fingers touched at his throat briefly and then he dropped them back to the cat. "I'm just as much to blame for what happened. More even. I'm sorry." John nodded and ran his palm along his thigh. "That's all."

She stared at him quietly, blinking. "Okay. Thank you."

"Was that okay?"

"An okay apology?"

"Yes."

That was a weird question. "Ah… yeah. Of course." She smiled reassurance. "I accept."

He nodded, frowning. "I don't… make many apologies. To people. So I'm not sure."

"It was a good apology."

A silence spread between them. It was his turn to reply but he forfeited the right, just looking at her instead. He needed to stop doing that. It was incredibly distracting. His gaze was starting to become consistently unreadable and the cryptic expressions were beginning to irk her. She could usually read people pretty well, but this was something else entirely. She cleared her throat and put her hand over her shoulder.

"Hey, look," she grinned, breaking the quiet. "I have some temporary battle scars." The long sleeve t-shirt she was wearing was more than wide enough at the collar so she could slide it away from her left shoulder. A speckle of fingerprint shaped bruises darkened her skin. "I hope he's been on liquid food since Thursday."

She looked back to John with a wide grin, amused. He wasn't smiling. His eyes fixed to her shoulder, mouth pressed in a hard line. A muscle in his jaw twitched and then he dragged a slow hand over his cheek. She readjusted her shirt, covering the marks. That wasn't exactly the reaction she had been hoping for. Still, at least she could read this one. _Highly compressed fury._ John swallowed and then breathed out, very quietly. Grey eyes flickered to hers.

"Are you busy?" he asked abruptly.

"Now, you mean?"

He nodded slowly.

"Um, no," she replied, shaking her head. "I was just going to attempt to finish..." She pointed to the copy of Pride And Prejudice on the table.

"How many times have you read that?"

She narrowed her eyes. "How do you know this isn't the first time I've read it?"

"There's three copies of Sense And Sensibility on your bookshelf."

"Is there?"

The vehemence in his eyes diminished and switched back to warm as if they had never been anything else but. "Yes."

"Bit excessive, I suppose."

"Mmm. Possibly." He nodded at the book beside them. "Where are you up to?"

"Colin Firth taking off his clothes and diving into the lake."

"I don't remember reading that part," he smiled slowly, biting into his lip.

"Well, Austen obviously made a huge mistake not including it when she wrote the book adaption."

John sipped his tea, trying to stop a pressing grin. He looked at her straight and then slid into a formal English accent. "Excuse me, your parents are in good health? And all your sisters? And your parents, they are in good health? Have I mentioned your parents? Are they well?"

Clara almost spilled her tea as she laughed. She put a hand over her mouth, swallowing quickly. His dark eyes darted over her humoured expression and then he smiled again. "As I like to call it… Liz and Darcy's Great Big Misunderstanding."

She grinned. "Yeah," she exhaled softly. "They were pretty stupid." The direction of conversation was perhaps straying into territory a little too metaphorical and so she set her cup down and shifted her position, leaning back and propping one foot up against the table. "Anyway. You're not exactly interrupting anything."

"Do you want to listen to the show?"

 _What?_

Clara blinked. "You're not busy?" Even without the music, the podcast would still be an hour and a half.

"No."

"Ah, yeah, sure then," she answered, her mouth making the decision before she had even run the idea properly through the rest of her head. She smiled, a little started. "Okay."

She scanned her eyes over the living room. "I'll just find my phone for the podcast. Hang on."

Clara stood up and quickly made her way upstairs, her thoughts distracted by the strange turn of events. Unsuccessful, she returned to the living room.

"Sorry. I've lost it," she grinned, annoyed.

"Just use mine." John reached into his pocket. He took a moment and then—"What's your wifi?"

"One two three four five." She switched her stereo on, watching him smile as he typed in the numerals. "Bluetooth for sound.

"Would you like another cup of… whatever you call that monstrosity?"

"Yes, please," he smiled, not taking his eyes from the screen.

"What about breakfast?" she asked, spinning back around before reaching the kitchen. "Have you had breakfast? Would you like breakfast?"

She was nervous, bewildered by how completely unpredictable and mercurial this morning was shaping up to be. The rush of rambling words from her mouth surprised her. Christ. She met... _celebrities_ all the time. To the extent where she had thought she'd become sufficiently immune to the idea of reacting to fame. Unfazed. Professional. This was ridiculous. A darker part of her wondered if it wasn't fame but simply just _him._ She forced it away.

"I don't like breakfast," he replied, solving her immediate problem at the thought of what she could actually offer if he had said yes.

The kettle boiled again and she watched him with more subtlety. His eyes fixed to his phone, fingers moving over the screen.

 _What sort of person has more than two sugars in tea? What sort of person puts sugar in tea in the first place?_

She put a bowlful of the tiny granules in front of him on the coffee table. "Couldn't bring myself to do it twice, so you're going to have to do it in front of me. I hope you feel ashamed."

"Don't watch," he warned. "You'll get sick."

John grinned as the fourth spoonful dissolved into the cup and then went back for a fifth. "Just kidding," he murmured, stirring and then dropping the spoon. "Wouldn't want to go overboard."

"You're a disgrace to this nation," Clara told him as he leant back into the couch.

He shrugged. "Could be worse. I could have Clarkson's autobiography on my bookshelf."

She felt herself start at the immediate comeback. "It's not mine," she retaliated before she even considered what she was saying. He looked at her briefly and then back to his phone, expressionless.

"Do you usually listen to us live?" she asked quickly.

"Try to," he shrugged. "I mean—I don't schedule my life around it." He grinned, thumb running over his bottom lip. "But there's an intimacy with radio, don't you think? There's something about hearing a song you love and knowing everyone else is hearing it too. I like that."

Clara smiled softly, understanding very well.

"I feel the same about your show. Jack's a true man-of-the-people," John continued. "I think I relate to how it feels knowing what it's like to bring a mass of people together. In a different way of course, but it's still the same sort of thing. Anyway." He cleared his throat, a little bashful and put his thumb into the screen. "Play."

Her friend's familiar voice cast into the room, beginning with his usual introductions and pathetic but humourous grovelling to Britain's monarchy. He spent the first ten minutes clearly enjoying being able to talk by himself and weaving his way skillfully around the fact that the show was missing a vital component. Very professional.

As usual, the show slowly disintegrated as Jack's ramblings turned into, well, _Jack's ramblings._ Rory did a good job of keeping him in line and Clara grinned to herself, her influence clearly apparent on him. Rory could hold his own, but he was usually more passive than she was, even though his leniency with specific content was more restricted than hers. She considered for awhile if Rory had taken on a subtle role of keeping her in line. Probably. Very Rory of him.

Clara could have argued John was peacefully asleep if it wasn't for his slow attentions on Margaret Thatcher and his small smiles at Jack's quips and jokes. She fixed her gaze over him, free to do so now that he had his eyes closed. The sun highlighted his silver curls, the untamed mess upon his serene features. She was still having a little trouble processing he was in her living room, best friends with the fucking cat and quite happy to spend ninety minutes with her.

They got through just over an hour before a demanding yell came from the front door. Clara snapped out of her hypnosis, realising vaguely she hadn't been listening for the last twenty minutes. Probably longer.

"Oswald!"

Footsteps stamped into the living room before Clara even had a chance to stand up. The tall redhead stared at John as he paused the audio, then to her, back to John, and finally her eyes drifted to the cat sprawled out in his lap.

"What the fuck is going on here?" Amy exclaimed finally, incredulous. "Why is Margaret Thatcher touching a human? Is she dead?" Her expression displayed the same disbelief that Clara had conveyed earlier.

"Why aren't you answering your phone," she continued, shifting her gaze to Clara. "And why _the hell"_ —She closed her eyes for a moment in astonishment before opening them on John—"are you here?"

"Why are _you_ here?" Clara interjected before either her or John could attempt to answer those questions.

"Seeing as you're incapable of using technology from this century, I've had to show up in person to ask if you wanted to get lunch."

Amy Pond, best friend and now unannounced visitor, threw her bag on the couch and stepped long legs over the back of it, not bothering to maneuver around the side.

"John, this is Amy," Clara explained quickly. "Amy, this is… the Doctor."

Amy threw her a distinctively dry look. "Clearly." She eyed John suspiciously, sitting so she was directly facing him.

"Hello, Amy," he said slowly, taking his hands off Margaret Thatcher.

"Nice accent," she replied in the same wary tone, the two of them regarding each other cautiously like they were in some sort of weird Western standoff.

"Comes with the territory."

Amy hummed and crossed her legs. "Enjoyed your cover story in the Mail."

"Thoughts?"

"You come across as a right bastard."

"Is that surprising?"

"Well, I always wondered." Amy's gaze flickered down to the table. "You put sugar in tea?"

"Only a little."

"Get out of this house."

Their deadlock broke when he laughed, and as Amy joined him, Clara was filled with an odd sense of relief.

"You should have lunch," John said, glancing at Clara before lifting the protesting cat away and standing up. "I should go.

"Nice to meet you," he directed politely to Amy who nodded and replied with the same.

Clara led him back down the hall and opened the door while he shrugged back into his coat. He paused, hesitant suddenly.

"May I have your mobile number?" John offered his phone towards her between his forefinger and thumb. "For the show," he explained. "In case I need to ring you."

She took it from his hand, already entering numbers as he continued. "Or your office, if that's more appropriate. Or an assistant."

"That's my mobile," she said, passing it back, barely registering the idea of giving him an alternative source.

John nodded and pocketed the device, keeping his hands inside the grey coat.

"What are you doing for the rest of the afternoon?" she asked as he took a step down the brick stairs.

 _What sort of question was that?_

"Write a song?" he replied, stopping. "Draw a picture? Maybe a bit of divorcing later on?" He shrugged, corners of his mouth turning up in a smile. "Usual nonsense."

His eyes drifted to the street and out to the surrounding neighbourhood. "It's a lovely day," he commented slowly, almost trance-like.

He was right. Clara couldn't remember the last time she'd noticed a day so still. The wind was non-existent, the flag her neighbours had attached to their roof definitively slack. England's red and white rested, its patriotism forgotten in the peace. Nothing of wider London's bustling activity breached the street. It should have been disconcerting, like a plague had suddenly left the city empty of life and only the company within the protection of the walls of her house had remained untouched. Yet there was no sense of disruption or disaster. Just peaceful rest. The sun burned at its highest point for the day, not able to quite reach above their heads. She could sense the inevitable return of the cold, the smell lingering in the air—of drying grass but wet dirt; the colour of the sun, which was always more golden, more saturated with colours of pseudo warmth this time of year. The shadows were longer and the heat was tentative, like it had snuck through by chance and could be snatched away at any second. A surreal moment.

John blinked and shook his head slightly before giving her a final smile and turned away, long legs descending the six stairs and then connecting to the footpath. She wanted to watch him leave but didn't want to be caught doing it, so she returned inside, staring at the back of the door in hazy confusion for a few moments before turning around.

"Clara," her friend started slowly as she walked back into the living room. "What's going on here?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't be naive. The Doctor was in your living room."

"We were re-scheduling his interview for the show."

Amy looked at her with dubious skepticism. "At your house. On a Saturday."

Clara turned away from her inquisitive friend by returning the cups to the kitchen. "So?"

"Bit weird."

"No it isn't," Clara continued quickly to defer the direction this was heading. "We sort of…" She trailed off, trying to think of something to say to explain what had just happened. "Holding cell debrief. He had some questions about Sharon. Where are we going for lunch?"

Clara had been even less forthcoming with Amy than with Jack about happened at the police station, giving her vague non-committal responses about what they'd done for five hours trapped in a small room together.

Amy, to her relief, dropped the immediate inquiry, distracted by prospect of their afternoon activities, but Clara could tell she wanted to pursue the topic. The ever present journalist, missing nothing. There wasn't really any way Clara had ever figured out to fool her with deflection—she just had to rely solely on her friend's mercy when faced with something she didn't want to be pressed on.

It _was_ weird, of course it was. He shouldn't have been here, or at the very least—he shouldn't have stayed. But that was it—the morning was done. She would see him in two weeks for three hours, and these strange three days, coinciding with the strange serenity in the weather, would pass into hazy memory. Perhaps they would run into each other at some event Jack would drag her along to, a distant occurance and a chance meeting.

 _Remember when I punched a man in the face for you_ —

 _Remember when I punched the same man in the face for you_ —

 _Yes_ —

 _Does your cat still hate you_ —

 _Yes_ — _And, John? I remember what I saw when you stepped out of the car, what I felt when you pressed me into the door, what you looked like in my living room_ —

Words she would never say. A conversation that would never happen. Amy beckoned and she followed, into the sun, into the very real world.


	6. Prelude In C Major

**Chapter 6: Prelude In C Major**

* * *

The weather turned to absolute _rubbish_ on Monday, but that was to be expected. What Clara didn't expect was this:

 ** _Any tips? John._**

Attached to the text message was a picture taken through the glass of a car window. A familiar woman in a red coat was present and looming. Clara, in her office at the studio, smiled wryly and replied.

 _Have you seen The Texas Chainsaw Massacre?_

His response came back quickly.

 ** _This may come as some surprise, but I'm not the sort of man with a chainsaw in the garage, let alone in the passenger seat of my car._**

Her smile grew and she typed out her next message.

 _Complete lack of foresight on your behalf._

 _ **I'm not far from Broadcasting House if you'd like to come and rescue me.** _

_Didn't bring my chainsaw to work._

 ** _Shame. I was going to ask if you were interested in becoming my full-time bodyguard._**

 _Nice to know I've got a backup career option._

 ** _Have lunch with me._**

What? Clara stared at her phone in bewilderment. He sent another two messages before she had even started thinking of a response.

 ** _I'll send a car._**

 ** _Black Mercedes. 10 minutes._**

She raised her eyebrows, amazed at his audacity.

 _What if I'm busy?_

His reply was delayed. She tapped her fingers over her desk, waiting. He took over a minute.

 _ **Then we won't be having lunch.**_

Clara exhaled, wondering what to do. _Technically,_ it was probably a good time for her go to lunch. She had a meeting in an hour and a half. On the other hand... _what the fuck?_ Why was he asking?

Cautiously, she wandered outside, not deciding either way whether she was accepting the offer— _demand_ —but keeping her options open as she left the premises of the building. As promised, a black Mercedes pulled up to the curb in perfect timing to her departure.

A young man, who couldn't be older than eighteen, jumped out of the driver's seat and swung open the front passenger door as she warily approached the vehicle. "Miss Oswald," he pronounced formally through a clear west London accent.

Clara frowned at him, hesitating to enter.

"I've been instructed to tell you to threaten me with a chainsaw if that makes you feel better."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, and then got in the car before she could talk herself out of it. "Do you work for John?" she asked the young man as he pulled out onto the road.

"I do," he grinned, glancing at her. "Louis."

"Clara," she replied slowly.

"I know."

"Where are we going?"

"Just down the road."

"Okay," she said dryly. "Thanks for all the detail."

He laughed with a slight smirk but didn't elaborate any further.

Monday in London—the streets were busy, black cabs dominating the area and buses curving precariously through the endless rows of vehicles. She watched the flurry of activity, the external sounds muted inside the car behind the Grime the young man beside her was listening to. Rain splattered the window.

Clara looked across to him. "Is John… a good employer?"

Louis grinned again, stopping at a light and turning down the volume on the stereo. "The best. But don't tell him that. Won't be good for his ego."

"How long have you worked for him?"

"Year and a bit? Day after I got my driving licence. I've known him over half my life though. My mum does his PR."

"You're Donna's son?"

He nodded and Clara thought she could see the resemblance, notably the dark auburn hair and somewhere in his eyes perhaps. Louis laughed suddenly, a burst of warm humour. "She's having a right carry on over you," he revealed, grinning. "I don't think she knows what to make of you. You're like… a problem but… I don't know. You've got her on the back foot, which is pretty rare for mum. It's funny."

She didn't know what to do with that comment so instead she decided to engage in a bit of her newly learned interrogation. "You've known John since you were about what—Eight? Nine?"

"Ah… yeah. Actually, no, younger. Like six? Mum's worked for him for around twelve years. He's been my"—Louis paused to laugh—"'Appropriate-male-influence' according to her." He chuckled again and tilted his hand forward in a directive motion. "Keeping me on the straight and narrow. Always thought that was a bit hypocritical." He looked at her, amused. "I mean, he did just get arrested."

"I was a key contributor to the event," she contended with a small smile.

"Nah," he smiled, shaking his head. "Well… yeah. But I'd put it all on him."

"What's it like having British music royalty as your _appropriate-male-influence_ then?"

Frowning, Louis hummed in thought before his expression transformed with a slow grin. "Guess I took it for granted growing up until I realised I could exploit his name in order to impress girls."

"Does that actually work?" she laughed, amused at his natural teenage confidence.

"I like to think it's all this"—he gestured at his face—"but it doesn't _not_ help."

"So… you grew up with him around?"

"Yeah. Pretty much. I've got lots of memories being at his shows and that when I was little. Still go though when he plays now, of course. Take the lads and we yell at him for a bit of breakbeat." He grinned, pointing at the stereo. "Never works. But… yeah. John's been good to me. Haven't... um… Yeah, my dad left my mum when I was like eight and I haven't seen him since. So I guess he's filled in some. Swayed a bit from the line when I was a bit younger, you know?" He drilled his fingers over the wheel. "Helped me out. Taught me how to drive. Gave me stuff to do after school rather than the other shit I was leaning towards."

Louis smiled, shaking his head in thought. "Oh, man, I remember this time. Listen to this, yeah. I was about fifteen? Few years ago. Met these lads through some mate I knew at football. They were a couple years older than me and I knew they were a bit hazy but I was sort of up for it at the time. I was like… skipping classes and doing stupid shit. So one Saturday I showed up at one of their parties and took something they offered. It was getting proper rough in there. If my head had been right, I don't think I would've even gone through the front door. Like even now, yeah, I'd be hesitant. But I was completely smashed and I started giving this guy, Kyle, lip about how his girlfriend was messing around or something. That didn't sit right with him, naturally." He grinned. "I was off my head. He clocked me on the jaw"—Louis put a finger on the side of his face—"and I went down pretty fast. I had no chance. He hit me again and _then_ — _"_ He laughed in awed disbelief, shaking his head. "Man, John just comes _out of_ _nowhere._ Like a bulldozer. Pulls this lad off me and basically crushes him into the wall. House full of teenagers aren't exactly his demographic but they must have recognised him cos they fucking _broke_ under him. Good chance it was the growling Scottish, but it was strange though, like I wouldn't have thought they'd react like that.

"No idea how he found out where I was. Must have done some Baker Street work to figure it out. But he literally dragged me out of the house by my shirt, and then he goes, _does that kid have a car?_ I point to this Bimmer parked across the street. John, right—gets out the wrench from the back of his." Louis grinned, wide with clear delight. "Driver and back passenger windows, smash, smash."

"Appropriate male influence," Clara remarked, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

"Yeah," he laughed. "I know, right? We never told mum about the windows. My A.M.I. walks back across the road, calm as anything, grabs me by the collar and throws me the car. Took me round to his, cleaned me up in the bathroom and looked after me the rest of the night till I came down. I was so sick. You'd think advocating a bit of revenge destruction wouldn't be great for a susceptible fifteen year old but I just remember afterwards, right, he wasn't angry at me or anything like mum was? He sat me down and gave me some… good advice, I guess. Took a bit to kick in properly, but he really did a lot to set me right. I was an angry teenager. Well, still in the age range. But I've calmed down a bit."

"I understand what it's like to only have one parent," Clara smiled softly. "I was angry too."

"Yeah? What did you do?"

"Bought a motorbike."

Louis laughed, raising his eyebrows. "That is awesome. Still got it?"

"Yeah. Well, not the original. That was destroyed in an incident at my Dad's second wedding when I was sixteen."

He raised his eyebrows. "That sounds like a hell of a story…"

She grinned. "Tell you another time. In hindsight, I'm embarrassed about it."

Louis smiled, a personal, reflective expression. "Ardy's a—sorry, _John_ , he's a fucking great guitar teacher, too. I'll give him that as well."

"He sounds… a lot different from his reputation in the media."

"Yeah, mate," he murmured, an automatic response directed to the windscreen. He glanced at her again. "Comes across as an arrogant bastard, but it's just…" Louis grinned. "Well, he is an arrogant bastard. But not in the way people think. Helps him deal with the attention, I reckon. He gets the sort of shit you had last week all the time. That was on the extreme end, but a version of that constantly. I notice it now that I'm exposed to it on a more regular basis. It's proper mental."

Louis put his hand on the horn as a car in front of them slowed and stopped without any discernible reason. "London fucking drivers," he muttered, frowning. "Need a big wagon to get a bit of respect."

He glanced at her. "Damn," he expressed, frowning slightly with bemusement. "That was a personal car ride, right?"

She grinned, brows creasing slightly as she agreed. "It was actually."

"I guess smacking some fuck in the face for him has extended my loyalty." He sent her another wide smile. "Nice one, by the way. Have you seen the video?"

"No," she said slowly. "I'm avoiding it."

"Ah, you should. It's so good. My mate Raj wants you to teach him how to fight."

"You can tell Raj I didn't enjoy my time at the police station."

Louis flicked the indicators and pressed on the brake. Destination reached.

"I'm not really sure what I'm doing here, to be honest," she admitted.

"Neither do I," he replied, one side of his mouth curling up as he twisted to look out the back window. "But whoever you are, Clara Oswald, he must like you because he really doesn't invite anyone, anywhere."

He parallel parked efficiently into a space on the side of the road and then looked back over his shoulder, pointing to a building behind them. "See the white door beside the post there? Just press the…" Louis trailed off, frowning in the direction he was indicating to. "Actually, better escort you in, if you don't mind, yeah? We're having a few problems with some old friends of ours. Sure you've noticed."

"Mmm… It had captured my attention."

"I smacked one of these guys after one of John's shows in Hammersmith about a year ago, too. Got away with it but he rained hell on me for days. Made me pay for the camera as well. Hypocrite."

Fortunately, _that-bitch-Sharon_ was nowhere to be seen, but there were enough photographers to be startled by. To her surprise they recognised her, calling out with questions about the assault and subsequent arrest, and then the question she was interested to know herself— _what are you doing here?_

Louis fended them away quickly and swiped a keycard to the right on the wall. He held the door open for her to step through but didn't continue inside.

"Back in an hour," he grinned, moving to leave. "Wait—hang on." He kept the door open as a young woman came up behind him with a plastic bag in her hands. "Good timing. Cheers."

Louis handed Clara the bag and then proceeded to shut out the noise. Silence recommenced.

She had absolutely no idea where she was. It clearly wasn't a house, but it also wasn't replicant enough to be an office either. A small foyer that spread out into a room with a comfortable set of couches surrounding a coffee table greeted her. Beyond that was a corridor and as she took a step forward, a door to the left was pulled open and two men walked out, chatting. They noticed her and the one closest pushed it back open and called out. "Doctor!"

The two of them gave her affable smiles and passed by her to leave.

John's head appeared around the doorframe. "Hello, Clara Oswald," he grinned, gesturing. "Come in here."

He disappeared and Clara came forward curiously. The heavy door was held open and she entered into a room that shed complete clarity over where she was. A studio expanded in front of her, large mixing desk to the right overlooking a recording room through a wide glass window. To the left, more couches and another coffee table. It was softly lit, warm from low lamps.

"Hey," she greeted him slowly, slightly stunned by the room.

"Hello," he repeated again, smiling and taking the plastic bag from her hand. "Thanks for bringing lunch."

"Yeah," she smiled back, snapping out of her immediate stupor. "Hi. Sorry, I'm a little… confused. What's going on?"

"We're having lunch, apparently." John sat down on one of the couches and pulled out a plastic container to hold up. "See? Lunch."

"Where are we?" Clara stared through the glass into the large room full of instruments and microphones.

"I'm pretty sure this is the best Chinese rice you can get in this city," he continued, spreading out the containers on the table. "And that's no light recommendation. I've spent years doing research."

He stopped as he realised she was staring at him. "Studio," he explained through the plastic fork resting in his mouth. "My studio. We've got ceramic plates and plastic utensils." He held up both to show her.

"You're going to have a really bad time if you don't like Chinese," he frowned. "But you can't complain. You brought it here, so I'm assuming it's fine."

She looked at him with growing amusement.

"You can't trust someone who doesn't like Chinese food anyway," he pondered, frowning further. "How does someone not like rice?" He shook his head in disgust. "Out of all the foods, it's the best one."

"I like Chinese," she assured him, taking the fork he offered.

"Thank god," he breathed, visibly relieved. "I was getting worried."

Ceramic plate equipt, she sat down and picked up a fork. "Why am I here?" she asked curiously, blinking a little as he turned to her and smiled softly. He was similarly attired to the last two times she'd been in his company. Black jeans and black boots. Instead of a jumper however, he wore a thin, long-sleeved t-shirt. Black, also. He obviously wasn't particular to expanding very much into the colour spectrum. The sleeves were rolled up his forearms and it was half tucked into his jeans at the front. He looked rather good in… clothes, she noted. Just a fact. That was all.

John shrugged. "Thought you might like to get out of one studio and straight into another. You know… a change of scene."

"This is a lot nicer than ours," she grinned, looking around again to take in some of the finer details.

"Well, that'll be the licence-payer budget verses my bank account." John gave her a crooked smile and stabbed a spring roll with his fork.

There was a beautiful and huge watercolour set on the adjacent wall, a dark concept of a concert, expanding crowd in front of a yellow and blue lit stage. To the left of the mixing desk hung a whiteboard containing what looked like production notes and messages. Somebody had scrawled an uncredited quote at the bottom which made the edges of her mouth curl slightly.

" _He always hated me. Fucker can play and sing like a god but I'll never work with him again."_

"I like your young friend Louis," she started, breaking their small moment of silence as she finished surveying the room.

A fond smile crossed his features. "Mmm. He's a good kid. He's all"—John made talking motion with his hand, mouth curving into a grin—"talk and attitude. Like his mother. Donna's son, if he didn't tell you."

"He told me," she nodded.

"I actually think he's meant to be in school today," he frowned, pausing with his forkful of rice. "He seems to spend a lot of time lately on 'study breaks' though so I get him to run around for us here."

John chewed slowly. "He's turning eighteen just before Christmas. I'm trying to decide whether getting him a car is a good idea. Donna's refused to let him get one until this birthday. But the one he's been saving for is… well, personally, I don't think it should be allowed on the fucking road."

Clara hid a smile behind her fork.

"I was going to buy him a version that might actually pass a health and safety inspection. What do you think?"

"Ah… What does Donna think?"

"Wants nothing to do with it. If she had a choice, he'd still be strapped into one of those baby seats in a foam room and cars didn't exist."

Clara grinned. "Get it then. Safety first. I mean…" She trailed off, cautious about entering into intrusive territory.

"What?" he asked, insistent.

"Well, just... _personally,_ I wouldn't buy him a Ferrari or anything. But that's just my opinion. Your decision, obviously."

He grinned. "So half a million quid is a little excessive for a first car?"

She matched his humoured expression. "Something to work towards. Start low."

John laughed. "I'll just tell him I was going to spend that but you talked me out of it."

"Shame. We were getting on so well." Clara turned back to her plate and then sent her gaze back to scan the room. "Do you own this place?"

"Yes," he smiled, continuing when he saw her expression. "You look surprised."

"Well, no, I'm not, I guess," she frowned. "Do people just hire it out or…?"

"Sometimes," he shrugged. "But mainly it's used for my work with other musicians. I write more for other people now than anything for me or the band. We produce or collaborate on projects in here."

Clara nodded slowly, scanning the room again.

"I don't really manage anything, just own it. Adam runs the place. You saw him on your way in? He splits the engineering with Kat—she's not here today—and then we've got another three staff for tech stuff and paperwork." He gestured with his fork through the wall. "There's another suite at the end of the corridor." His eyes lit up, enthusiasm clear in his expression. "We also bring in young bands we like—people Adam usually finds—and work with them. Bit of mentoring, producing. I write with them. Studio time is expensive." He paused to eat. "So we help them out."

Clara smiled at him slightly, watching as he began absently separating the food on his plate into type before looking back up to her.

"Do you have any siblings? Brothers? Or…" He looked at her curiously, almost as if he were confused as to why he was asking the spontaneous question.

"Sisters?" she finished with a smile.

"Or sisters."

She shook her head. "Nah. Just a goldfish between ages nine and eleven. My mum died when I was young and Dad remarried this…" Clara closed her eyes for a moment, trying to decide how to appropriately describe her stepmother without coming across as a lunatic. "... _Other woman._ They didn't have any kids. So, no. Just me. Do you?"

"Younger sister. Missy. She lives in Glasgow." John grinned, biting into his fork. "I spoke to her on the phone on Friday. Well, she spoke _at_ me for twenty minutes about appropriate behaviour. Which I'm sort of surprised about because, honestly, out of the two of us, she is absolutely more likely to be a criminal. But apparently my thirteen year old niece is going around her school telling kids I'll 'deal with them' if they cross her. So, you know. Damage control."

Clara chuckled. "She sounds like a great kid."

"Yeah. Takes after her mother." John smiled and then his amused expression fell and he looked to her rather ruefully. "I'm sorry about your mum," he frowned. "How old were you?"

"Fifteen."

He winced, pausing his fork's retreat to the plate.

"Yeah. Wasn't great, obviously. Cancer. I was an angry teenager for awhile. We moved to London afterwards. I met Amy—who you met on Saturday—and we solved all my lingering rage issues. Maybe. But it's all right. Except—" She smiled, closing her eyes momentarily. "For my Dad remarrying. I'm not over it yet. Thirteen years on."

He smiled back at her, gazing at her in that searching, exploratory way. "Does Amy work for the Guardian?" he asked suddenly.

Clara nodded and swallowed her mouthful. "Yeah. Politics. Westminster correspondent… something. Something that makes her furious and overexcited on a regular basis."

"Donna mentioned her when we were talking about Jack on Friday. I recognised her name, actually. Figured it was probably the same person when we met."

"You read her work?"

"Preferred print media, the Grauniad," he grinned. "So, yes. I do. How's your head injury?"

She smiled, narrowing her eyes a little at the quick subject change. "Still fine. You don't need to keep asking."

"Okay. Just checking. You know, because I'm the Doc—"

She jabbed his arm with her fist before he could finish the last syllable.

"Ow. That's... common assault."

"You were about to common assault my ears."

"Yeah," he grinned, rubbing his bicep. "Couldn't resist. Did that feel like punching steel?"

"Didn't notice. I'll check next time you attempt the worst pun of all time."

He smiled to himself and went back to his plate. "So…" he began. "What's happening in Radio-Land today?"

"Trouble at mill," she drawled in her best exaggerated Northern accent. "There's a… Can I put my feet on this table?"

He grinned at her. "You can do whatever you want."

She leant back into the couch, relaxing a little more in his presence. "You know Rory? He produces Jack's show with me."

John nodded. "I do." A smile spread his mouth and he slid into something quite accurately representative of Jack. _"Rory! This is MY wedding! I will have a procession of strippers if I want to!"_

Clara laughed, choking a little on her mouthful of rice. "That's still happening."

"Good," he grinned. "I'm looking forward to the pictures."

"Rory is Amy's partner by the way," she added. "If you wanted some extra background information about my small network of friends. We do the morning shows during the other weekdays, too. He's dealing with this continuous nightmare with the marketing department for The Wedding and he brought me in to yell at someone this morning." She grinned. "Not the sort of boss I want to be, but…"

She told him the ridiculous story, smiling when he smiled in that genuine, soft way that made her feel overly warm. Their conversation drifted and he explained in more detail about the studio, Adam and Kat's involvement, and then touched over some of the projects they were working on. His quiet enthusiasm mirrored in his eyes and she found herself captured in his voice and in his intensive, captivating expression.

They finished eating and he grabbed her empty plate and stood up, pointing at the large array of sliders and buttons. "I'm guessing you could probably use the desk?"

"Well," she grinned. "I'd need a tour, but I've got translatable skills. Can you?"

He hummed vaguely. "Just the basics. I've never been that interested in the technicals until it comes to mixing. And even then I just stand around complaining until someone makes it sound right. I only like being in there." He pointed through the glass and then moved to the door leading into the recording room. "Want to see?"

They shifted and he held open the heavy door, shutting it quietly behind her as she passed into the impressive space.

"Play any instruments?" he asked, curious as she stepped further inside.

She shook her head, staring at the extensive range of musical equipment. "No..."

"Well that's good," he smiled, absently straightening an electric guitar on its stand. "Stupid things, anyway. Make too much noise."

Their voices were attenuated in the soundproof room, manipulated by the shape and acoustic panels on the walls. A grand piano, smaller than a concert size but still relatively large filled the corner and Clara gravitated towards it. "Woah," she breathed. "Okay, so I know enough about pianos to know that this one was fucking expensive."

She traced her fingers over the Steinway & Sons imprint on the fallboard.

"Ah, yes. It was." John pressed his fingers into the top end to make a chord. "Very. Had it at home but thought it would get more use here."

"Can you... play?" she asked tentatively. She honestly had no idea.

"Nah," he smiled, taking a seat on the double bench. "I can show you how to though."

She grinned at his quip and sat beside him.

"The only chords you need to know are A minor and C major," he explained. "All the rest are nonsense." He put his finger on a key, indicating for her to press.

"That's A," he said quietly, when the note sounded out. "And then C…" His finger touched the corresponding key. "And then E."

She pressed the three notes together and he smiled. "A minor chord. And C major is just…"

John took her fingers with his and repositioned them one at a time slightly further up the scale. "C, E, G," he murmured.

Her breath hitched just for a moment as he touched her. Warm fingers covering her own, she swallowed, fighting off the reaction. He brought her fingers back to A minor and pressed gently to finish the tutorial.

"There you go," he announced softly. She repeated the two chords and he nodded, approving. "Training complete."

She smiled up at him and he turned his eyes back to the keys.

"I like Bach," he muttered, tapping his fingers overs the white polymer. "And… Rachmaninoff." He growled the composer's name in a harsh Russian accent and grinned. "But I can't play his music. Far too complicated. Bach though. I can play some easy Bach."

The familiar melody of the classical piece resonated around the room, accentuated by the specific recording layout. She watched his fingers, _piano player fingers,_ move slowly over the keys, delicate and soft.

"I know this," she murmured.

"Prelude in C Major," he smiled.

Their shoulders brushed as the movement shifted to the left and lower keys. He paused, hovering his fingers and gave her a guilty look. "I've forgotten the end." He frowned down at his hands. "Don't tell Bach."

"You're really good." Genuine in the complement, even with a simple piece, she saw his eyes soften amidst the warm light, and an abashed smile touch his mouth.

"No," he contended quietly, shaking his head a little. "It's just… That's a beginner's composition. I can't play how I would like to play. I would need to sit here for a very, very long time."

"Criminals one and two," came a sudden male voice over speakers. "I'm eating the rest of this Chinese."

"Adam," he explained to her, looking over his shoulder to the reflective glass and lifting a hand in greeting.

"Sam's on his way over, Doctor. Thought we could do his guitar and then see where he's at with Jules on the second half of that track they sent over last week."

John mouthed something at the window.

"What?"

"Fender," he repeated out loud.

"Speak into a mic."

"Useless fucking staff," John muttered with a grin to her, swinging his legs out from the bench and standing up to move toward the glass window.

"Fender!" he yelled directly into the nearest microphone.

"Fucking hell," the voice replied in amused disgust. "I need my ears."

"Tell him he needs to bring his own Strat," John continued. "Kat still has ours."

"Yeah, yeah. Gotcha. I'm pretty sure he is."

John turned back to her with a soft smile and she stood up to join him at the door. "It's almost one," he pointed out, looking at his watch. "Do you have to go?"

"Ah, yeah," she replied. "I should. Have a budgeting meeting. Exciting, huh?"

He looked disappointed and she _felt_ disappointed.

"Well," he began, shrugging. "This is where I am most of the time. If you ever want to come back. I could show you another chord. F, maybe. Or B minor. Not quite as good, but not one of the bad ones."

"I'll be playing Rachmaninoff in no time," she grinned.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Oswald," he frowned, putting his hand on the door. "You can't just show up here and think I'm going to divulge the secrets of how to be a musical genius."

They crossed back into the mixing room— _Hello, nice to meet you, Adam, goodbye_ —and continued into the foyer. John went to the window and peered outside, frowning in annoyance.

"There's still people outside," he sighed. "Sorry."

"How do you cope with them following you around all the time? I'd go crazy."

"I'm well aware of your techniques on handling the media, thanks," he smiled wryly, his gaze fixed on the outside.

"Are you just… used to it?"

She saw his eyebrows crease in an almost imperceivable manner.

"Not really." The look on his face dropped and he turned back to her with a proper smile, the troubled expression forgotten. "But it's fine."

Clara glanced at the door and then to him. She felt strange, as if she'd just been given something significant, but couldn't quite place what it was. "Thank you," she expressed quietly, a little shy. "For lunch."

"You're very welcome. Thank you for joining me."

A moment of silence passed between them.

"John, would you want to…" Clara paused, swallowing, realising with hopeless alarm she had just started a sentence she didn't know how to finish. To her surprise, he answered before she could salvage an ending.

"Yes."

"You didn't know what I was going to say."

"Well," he smiled gently, "neither did you."

She felt herself start to blush and desperately tried to stop the reaction. A difficult task. Clearly, she understood while cursing at herself in her head, he was purposefully attempting not to make her even more embarrassed.

"When you decide on the rest of that sentence, my answer will be yes."

Nodding, she tried to at least make a show of being entirely unconcerned about the whole affair. "Okay. That's… good."

He continued smiling at her, resting his head against the doorframe, eyes glittering with amusement. She was quite happy to face the return of the shouting and flashes rather than the self-conscious _fluster_ she felt under his gaze. As young Louis escorted her back to the car, she barely took notice of the attention, consumed instead with mentally chastising herself for what was probably the least-cool performance of whatever-that-was in her entire life. She didn't do awkward encounters. It was supposed to be the other way around.

Another part of her was beginning to sound out the alarm bells. This was not a good idea. Yet she crushed it down, refusing to let herself think about the path this might be leading.

The overwhelming part of what had just happened knocked into her as she was driven back to Broadcasting House, staring silently out the window to the passing city. The glass was cold, the heat of her breath leaving a vapour that quickly diminished as she inhaled.

 _One hour._

Her heart raced in her chest, nails digging into her palm with unexpected astonishment. One hour, the _first_ one hour that she hadn't thought about _the event._ She clung onto the feeling for as long as possible, relishing in the temporary absence of its suppressing and smothering nature.

Bach lingered in her mind, the tune circling her thoughts. Preludes.


	7. A Song For Winston

**Chapter 7: A Song For Winston**

* * *

 _Would you want to…_

Have lunch again? Have dinner? Have… ?

Clara groaned, tapping her phone against her head with frustration. This request could go anywhere. She was the master of decision making. No, she was the goddamn _queen_ of decision making. He'd already said yes, apparently, so whatever she asked, it wasn't as if she needed to panic over possible rejection. Even so, here she was, fifteen minutes into floundering at the prospect of deciding exactly what she was supposed to ask and on her way to giving herself a concussion. Although… if she was being completely honest with herself, this was much longer than just fifteen minutes. She had been struggling in uncertainty for two days, doubtful about how long of a time period was appropriate to wait. Wednesday afternoon contact seemed appropriate. But she wasn't sure. Very much not sure.

So, option one. Safe, generic, more convenient than option two. Less implication. Or perhaps—

 _Fuck it._

She typed out the message and pressed send before she could continue in this ridiculous state of indecisiveness.

 _Would you want to… have dinner with me?_

 ** _No._**

He was kidding. He must be kidding. If she waited and didn't reply, he would amend his stupid joke. She lasted less than ten seconds before sending a follow up.

 _Are you kidding?_

She breathed out in relief when his response arrived.

 ** _Yes, of course I'm kidding. Of course I'll have dinner with you. When?_**

 _Tomorrow?_

 ** _Okay. I know a restaurant. I'll pick you up from your place at 7._**

Clara blinked at the message.

 _Do I get any say in the decision making process?_

 ** _No._**

Honestly though, she thought to herself—it was probably a good thing based on the last fifteen minutes. She smiled wryly, typing out some response that could pass as begrudging acceptance, not quite able to let herself get entirely away with surrendering to such peremptory demands so readily.

* * *

 ** _I'm going to be late._**

 ** _An hour._**

Clara received the consecutive messages early in the evening. Delayed in arriving home, she suddenly didn't mind the unexpected extra time. The last twenty four hours had dragged as if Time itself had decided to launch a personal vendetta against her, refusing to move. Yet now, faced with extra minutes, she was almost grateful. She had spent the afternoon not quite managing to keep Jack from publicly disgracing himself and the nation during their broadcast, and in him doing so, had been stuck with Rory afterwards dealing with the minor fallout of events.

Even so, she still wasn't ready to go when the doorbell rang out, not yet dressed and instead sitting at her mirror deciding how much eyeliner was enough eyeliner to be seen with this evening. Indecisiveness—her new character trait, she mused darkly, touching the pencil to her eyelashes.

At the sound of the bell, she headed downstairs to answer to call. John pressed past her instantly, putting his hand into the door and shutting it firmly behind him. "Sorry," he breathed. "I'm really late, I know. Or early? Sorry, either way. Is this locked?" He twisted the handle and then flipped the latch to make it so.

"Are you all right?" she asked him cautiously, taking in his flustered demeanor, windswept hair and furrowed brow.

"No. Yes. I'm just having a real fucking problem with the press. It's beyond ridiculous now. I keep thinking I'm being paranoid and then _there they are,_ my snappy friends.

"I've unintentionally led them here, too. I don't—" John paused, realising his frantic, agitated state. "I don't usually let it get to me like this." He exhaled, wiping at his eyes. "But I've had a truly awful day. I had to meet River this afternoon with her lawyer. And _Jesus,_ she is not really not interested in being discreet about this fucking mess. She's making it worse on purpose."

"She's the one having the affair," Clara frowned, confused at the admission. "Why exacerbate?"

"Ah… Angry at me. Her manager and PR have always fucking hated me, too. Deborah—manager—just told me to fuck off and go back into the adject scum I came from."

"Charming," she replied.

"Sorry," he apologised, almost wincing. "Fuck. I don't want to talk about this with you."

"It's all right," she smiled gently, indicating to the living room. "Just come inside."

"Hang on," he stopped her as she made to turn around, "Clara." He looked at her with a sudden desperate sort of helplessness. "I really am sorry. I do understand I'm bringing this quite literally to your doorstep."

He put a hesitant finger into the door. "I'm sure you understand how this looks," he swallowed. "To them."

She didn't reply, just waited for him to continue.

"I personally—do not give a fuck," he expressed darkly, steeling over slightly. "But you should know, if you haven't realised already—it's going to cause you some problems and you need to know I'm not comfortable putting you in this situation. Ideally, in some utopia for celebrity attention the theory is that you can ignore it, but from my experience—it's not as simple as that. It's mentally exhausting. I'm sure you can deal with a bit of tabloid speculation, but with Deborah on her fucking war-path… I don't think they're going to be very forgiving to you. In relation to how this looks." He finished weakly, looking both helpless and defiant at the same time.

"I don't care," she told him. "I get it."

He sighed, putting a hand through his hair. "With respect… you really don't." A pitying smile touched his mouth. "It will absolutely not help you having someone at the Mail who hates you. It's a vicious cycle. One paper creates something and the others flock around it to feed, until it's disproportionate and replicates like some aggressive virus. Spreads beyond just yourself, see? Your friends, family start getting harassed. People show up at their doors pestering for information and wanting things. On top of having to explain to them why your picture's in the press."

A sudden thought crossed Clara's mind, making her laugh.

"What?"

She grinned, chuckling. "Nothing. Just… my stepmother. She would be fine with Sharon Lowles turning up at her house. I mean, it would be a disaster for me but an early Christmas for her. She would invite her in for tea and a good chat. In fact, she's going to love everything that might be printed about me."

"That's not funny."

"John—"

"No, please, just listen. I'm being selfish," he confessed, helpless again.

"What?"

"Being here. I know what I'm exposing you to. But I'm still here anyway."

"Oh, right," she shrugged. "Out you go then." She pointed at the door.

His face fell, despairing until she reached out and gave his arm a light punch.

"Stop it," she grinned, shaking her head. "Come inside. It's not selfish. You're right, I don't understand what it's like, but you _are_ allowed to be here without feeling guilty. I'm still naive enough not to care, so perhaps we can just enjoy that before my inevitable meltdown and public humiliation."

He didn't seem to find that very amusing either but did seem to relax slightly. "I could argue punching someone in the face and being arrested wasn't a great indicator for future behaviour."

She laughed and bit into her lip. "Maybe not."

"I feel obligated to warn you."

She nodded. "Okay. Thank you for the warning. Now just… come inside."

He pulled off his coat and Clara had to consciously stop herself from groaning aloud.

 _Jesus-Fucking-Christ._

His suit. Completely, _undoubtedly,_ it was tailored—the black jacket and trousers fitting him like a second skin. Immaculately pressed, the accompanying light blue shirt was buttoned to the collar and the tight material pulled against his chest as he moved to hang his coat on the hooks beside the door. A thin black tie settled just below his throat, perfectly looped and just scraping his belt.

Surely, _surely,_ it must have been tailored by a proprietor of Savile Row. If he proceeded to inform her he'd just walked out of a photoshoot for some prestigious men's magazine, she wouldn't have been at all surprised. The photographers outside crossed her mind with vague hint of amusing irony. She felt her heart flutter as she gazed across his slim form and when he turned to take a step towards her, the rush of him almost made her sway. She felt the world darken as his eyes locked to hers, the compelling effect of his proximity taking a hold over her. The ever-changing blue-green hue glittered in the soft light, drawing her in and after a moment she began to feel like it was somehow impossible to look away from his almost paralysing gaze.

"Clara?" His rough accent growled her name and she snapped out of her stupor.

"Yeah," she swallowed, blinking. "Hi. Nice suit."

He flashed a grin, the one that didn't imply humour but simple acknowledgement, and he pressed a hand into his chest to unnecessarily flatten his shirt.

"How much did it cost?"

John shut his eyes, this time an unashamed but culpable smile fixing his mouth. "Thousands of pounds." A laugh pressed in his throat and he grinned, eyes opening to meet hers with glittering amusement. "My wardrobe sways from one extreme to the other. Jumpers with holes… and suits nobody should be able to afford."

He extended his smile for another moment and then indicated his intentions to move. He took a step down the hallway and then stopped to stare to his left. His mouth dropped open and then he looked at her, narrowing his eyes.

"I'm just dragging this sadistic joke out as long as possible," she explained, grinning. "In the current circumstances, it's working out better than I could have imagined."

A large chainsaw sat ominously on the table near the door. She ran her fingers over the handle.

"You actually _do_ own a chainsaw?"

"No. Why the hell would I own a chainsaw? Borrowed it from across the road."

He stared at her for a further few seconds and then laughed, properly, enough so that he had to lean back against the wall.

"I'm glad you're laughing. I had to sit through Mr Richardson's health and safety demonstration for twenty minutes. On the plus side, I think I probably know how to use it now…"

"Jesus. Remind me never to make you angry."

Clara spun around back towards him as they entered the living room, hesitant. "Ah, we don't have to go out, you know. If you're sick of being followed around. Even if that's contrary to what I just expressed and that you've already dressed up in a suit costing half the country's entire annual wage. It's sort of late, anyway."

"Really?" He raised his eyebrows, looking cheered at the prospect.

"I'm sure Margaret Thatcher will be pleased to see you."

"There's a sentence," he murmured, amused.

"We could cook…" Clara opened the fridge. "... Something."

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Yeah. It's fine. Probably better. I don't have a ten thousand pound ball gown to put on at the moment. I'll have to go and buy one tomorrow so I can be seen with you."

He grinned, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. "You could wear one of my jumpers and still look lovely."

She turned her gaze back into the fridge to avoid having to deal with any eye contact following that compliment. John shifted and peered over her shoulder. "Why is there nothing in your fridge?"

She hummed and frowned. "That is pretty bleak, actually." She closed the door and turned around to press her back against it. "Do you feel like climbing over a fence?"

John raised his eyebrows. Clara pointed through the glass door that led to her back lawn. "Escape route to the supermarket. Quick trip outside. I'll cook instead."

"Cook what?"

She shrugged. "No idea."

"Maybe I should cook."

"You know how to cook?"

"Of course," he insisted. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know," she frowned. "I'm making an assumption based on no evidence other than an unfounded stereotype."

"I'm offended." He furrowed his brows but she narrowed her eyes at him.

"You've got no idea, do you."

He shook his head and smiled, absently picking up a fork from the dishrack. "You should see me with a microwave though," he expressed, pointing the utensil at her. "All those buttons. I'm an expert. Start. Stop. The numbers. All the other ones."

"How very culinary of you."

"Well I could make something if someone was telling me what to do," he argued.

"Can you cook rice?"

He hummed in the negative.

"It's your favourite food!"

"What's the point when I can buy the best rice already made?"

She shook her head in amused disgust.

"Okay then, _you_ show me how to cook rice."

"All right. That I can do. Put your coat back on."

Clara switched on the flashlight to her phone, leading him out the backdoor. The grass was wet, air crisp and cold, sky black in the light polluted city and overcast evening. She realigned the garden chair that was propped up against the fence. "Follow me, Criminal Two," she grinned, passing him her phone and stepping on the chair to lift herself up.

"How come I get second place?" he complained, climbing up after her.

"I'm definitely the boss."

"Well, if we get caught then, I'll be telling the police you forced me into a continuing life of crime," he grumbled. "Good luck explaining that chainsaw in your urban house."

"I don't like your attitude, Smith," she growled. "This wavering loyalty is troubling."

"This conveniently placed chair makes me feel like you do this often."

They sat atop of the fence, taking stock of their surroundings as Clara gazed at him cautiously. "Don't… wreck that suit."

"I don't mind. I have lots."

"I'm not worried about your feelings. I'm worried about mine. I'm not sure I could handle seeing it get torn or dirty. In fact," she continued, "I would rather face the media out the front than the prospect of any material damage."

Grinning, John swung his legs over and dropped to the ground, wiping his hands on his trousers. She groaned aloud and he laughed before she joined him on the other side.

They traversed over the lawn and Clara banged her fist hard against the backdoor. Her neighbour, a man in his forties who did something complicated with computers, unlocked it, not looking particularly surprised to see her until he glanced at John and then his mouth fell open.

"Hi, Chris," she greeted cheerfully. "Just passing through. Don't mind, do you?"

"Holy fuck."

"Hi, Chris," John repeated casually, raising a hand.

"Hi…" He looked back and forth between them in disbelief. "Right. Right… Okay. This is fine. I'm not even going to ask." Sighing, he held open the door and ushered them inside. "Come on in."

"Probably best." Clara led them through the house, a familiar course. "How's Laura?" she asked conversationally as they crossed through the living room.

"She's... fine. At her mum's with the girls for tea. I've got a report to finish before tomorrow…" He trailed off, opening the front door. "Always a pleasure assisting your escapades, Clara… Doctor."

"Thank you very much," John said politely, giving him a smile.

Her neighbour started laughing, shaking his head in bewilderment. "You're very welcome. Anytime."

"We'll be back in about an hour," Clara grinned.

The two of them walked down the narrow pathway to the street, John beginning to quiz her on today's adventures in _Radio-Land._ She answered happily as they ventured north toward the shops, the fifteen minute walk in the dark passing quickly as he engaged her with his questions and comments on today's show with Jack and the aftermath from the _let's-call-the-listeners_ link that had gone awry.

"Welcome to the supermarket," Clara announced as the sliding doors parted and yellow light spilled out onto them.

John gave her a less than impressed look but the captivating enrapture he was extending toward the prospect as they went inside made her consider his transfixion wasn't all pretend.

"Push this," she instructed. "It's called a trolley."

Being after eight o'clock, the building was relatively quiet, probably a good thing considering who she was walking into a public space with.

"When was the last time you were in a supermarket?" she asked as she sent him toward the vegetables.

John looked at her, contemplating and then culpable. "Can't remember."

"Probably never been in one," she muttered, trying to hold back a smile. "Didn't exist. You were expecting a market stall."

"I'm not _that_ old," he grinned, peering with apparent intrigue at the different types of mushroom.

"No," she agreed, smiling at his amusement.

"Are you good at cooking?"

"Hmm…" she considered. "Not really. But I can make something edible, so that's an all right start."

Clara couldn't help but grin as she directed him around the _I-didn't-know-those-green-things-came-like-that_ section, making him select the items they needed. He seemed fascinated with everything, yet tried to hide mesmerization under frowning indifference. The wavering stoicism lasted until they passed by the snack section. "What the hell are these?"

She turned around to find him opening a rustling black packet.

"It's generally acknowledged you eat stuff _after_ you pay for it," she chided lightly.

"The thing about being incredibly famous, Clara," he announced, putting his hand into the bag, "is that you can do whatever you want and no one cares." He tasted the containments and groaned in pleasure. "These are _amazing."_

"What planet are you from?" she frowned, almost disgusted at how restricted his life must be. "How can you have never had Twiglets?"

"Planet of the severely oppressed." He grabbed another packet. "I'm getting them." He threw it into the trolley, reconsidered, and then went back for four—five—more.

"Anything else you haven't had?" Clara pointed at the Jaffa Cakes across the aisle.

He frowned and his mouth dropped open with growing astonishment, but then he snapped it closed, smiling. "No, I've had those. Jesus. Who the fuck do you think I am? Some oppressed celebrity?"

Clara followed him slowly down the aisles, watching his eyes fix on the bright masses of packaging, brows furrowed in curiosity. She'd already acquired everything they needed but she let him wander absently, eating his Twiglets and remaining content to inspect the supermarket's contents. There weren't many, but she noticed his subtle reaction as other people passed them. He turned away slightly, almost indistinctly, but hiding his face from any chance of being directly looked at.

John paused suddenly and looked back towards her, grinning expectantly.

"What?"

"Seriously?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"What?" she shrugged. "Do you need me to explain to you what pasta is?"

"This is me."

"Huh?"

He pointed his index finger at the ceiling. "That's me," he insisted, grin still plastered to his face. "Singing."

Clara frowned, focusing on the continuing track emitting from a substandard sound system. "Is it?"

"What do you mean 'is it'?"

She shrugged again, indifferent.

"Clara," he started, the bag of Twiglets in his hand suddenly forgotten. "Do you…" He looked at her as if she were mad. "... Do you _not know this song?_ _Everyone_ knows this song!"

"I can't really hear it over all the condemnation."

"You live in England! You work on the radio!"

"Yeah," she smiled, "but I'm more about the chat and the disaster management than the music. Just wait. Let me listen."

The first verse ended and the bars of a more familiar chorus fed through the speakers.

"Okay. I know this part now."

"Well, thank god for that!" he exclaimed dramatically, sighing with relief. "Imagine being a Briton and not knowing Loveland. I think you'll find it's listed under treason."

She laughed and he mouthed the rousing lines of the chorus, shutting his eyes as if captured in some over dramatic moment on stage.

 _Love_ — _I'm saving this for yesterday  
_ _Trust you've seen enough  
_ _I've been here too long to say  
_ _I think I'll try that for a day_

John dropped the act and grinned at her. "You know, this song—" He paused to chomp into the next round of Twiglets, frowning slightly, pondering. "In interviews, I'm always asked about this song. I always say it's about River. Young love. But really"—A slow smile started spreading his mouth—"it's about the dog my neighbours had when I was in my first flat in Glasgow."

Above them, the second verse began and he sighed, wistful. "God, I really loved that dog. Winston."

"Hang on," Clara frowned, processing what he was revealing to her. "You're saying that one of Britain's most popular love anthems is actually about some random dog?"

John nodded, quite serious. "Yeah." His face then broke into a wide grin, laughter in his voice as his eyes grew bright with enthusiasm. "You should have met this dog, Clara. Honestly. He was this huge black labrador. Used to break through this hole in the fence and chase me down the road. Next time you hear it, think 'could these lyrics be about a dog'? You'll find the answer is 'yes they can'."

"Oh my god," she muttered under her breath, trying not to grin. "You probably shouldn't tell people that."

"I don't think I've ever told _anyone_ that," he frowned, looking at her strangely.

"What about River?"

He pulled a face, horrified. "God, no. Our imminent divorce would have happened a lot earlier. I'd probably be dead, too."

Clara began directing them towards the checkout, smiling to herself. "Do you know any other animals named after our former heads of government?"

"Mmm," he contemplated, frowning. "My niece had a rabbit called Harold once. But I don't think it was in reference to either of our Harolds. I don't even think it was her rabbit. She used to just bring random animals back to the house." He smiled, expression turning a little distant before he grinned. "You don't like my music, do you?"

Clara sighed, knowing this had probably been an inevitable conversation. She leant her elbows against the trolley, pushing it slowly forward. "It's not that I don't like it, I've just never listened to it."

He raised his eyebrows. A skeptical look.

"Look, I know the main ones," she reasoned. "Well, some of them. I know Saltwater, of course. And what's the one that has that weird guitar at the start?"

"Loch Fleet?"

"Yeah. I like that one."

"One and a half. Not bad."

"Could probably manage to summon an album name if you really needed me to."

"No need for strenuous efforts, Clara," he grinned, pressing his hands into the end of the trolley to halt her push. "Let me guess." He fixed her with a considering gaze. "You're more particular to albums named… Rancid Carcass Graves of… Chaos."

She deadpanned the sign of the horns and then dropped it to give him a droll smile. "So perceptive."

"Alt-J," he guessed seriously. "Glass Animals. The xx. Am I right?"

She grinned. "Yeah. Anything a bit alt-weird. I also quite like Girls Aloud after a few drinks."

"I think that's mandatory in this country."

A wide, smug grin fixed to his mouth as she restarted the trolley's path to the checkout.

"What?"

John directed his gaze at her, now half snickering with amusement. "Do you enjoy having to look up the lyrics of your favourite band to know what words they're singing?"

Clara couldn't help but grin back at his teasing smirk. "Yes, I do. Thanks for asking."

Lilting his voice into something identifiably accurate and overtly soprano, he sang lyrics in quiet mockery under his breath. _"Flood flood flood of blood blood blood to the heart heart heart, flood something something something to the heart, heart, heart_ —"

Clara drove the trolley into him and he skipped back with a delighted cackle of laughter. "Five-nil to me on the Grammy front, Clara, so it looks like I'm the winner."

They arrived at the checkout and John dropped the bag of rice in front of the cashier present to serve them. "One stir-fry, please," he announced formally.

"Doctor…?" The young man's mouth dropped open, hand frozen against the touch screen in front of him.

"Evening." John threw his Twiglets onto the conveyor belt.

"Woah, _woah_ —this is crazy," he gawked. "I just—I just heard your song." His finger pointed toward the ceiling in the same way John's had. A bashful smile lit his face. "Um, my girlfriend really likes that track. So do I," he added quickly. He seemed a little sheepish. "We play it on our anniversary. Like a tradition, you know?"

"Good choice," John smiled back, turning slightly so he could lock his laughing eyes into hers. Clara struggled not to break her stoic expression. "It's a really perfect song for that sort of thing. Do you own a dog by any chance?"

"Ah… no?"

"Shame," he murmured. "I knew a dog once that really liked it."

A mountain of Twiglet packets amassed in a formidable pile. "This one's open," John cautioned the cashier, placing the bag separate from the rest. He indicated in her direction. "I told her she was breaking the rules of the supermarket but it was like trying to control a starved animal."

Clara kicked out lightly at his shin, her instinctive reaction to having unwarranted blame placed upon her. He jumped back to avoid the connection and then leant to put his mouth near her ear.

"If you think I'm going back to prison after discovering sticks covered in burnt marmite," he murmured so only she could hear, "you can think again."

Baring his teeth in a dangerous smile, he drew back and turned around, content to inspect the vegetables now moving down the belt. More confident at the prospect of engaging in a conversation with a cheerful and perhaps a less than expected intimidating _famous_ customer, the young man serving them began asking John tentative questions. He answered with practiced ease, clearly the sort of thing he was used to.

 _No, I just liked how it sounded when the string broke._

 _Yes, I saw Eddie a couple of weeks ago, actually. Went for a drink. Still has that stupid haircut._

Clara was surprised at the interaction. Everything she'd assumed about his character in dealing with the public wasn't exactly how he came across in reality. Of course, she hadn't previously known anything about him other than his portrayal from the media, yet the difference bewildered her anyway and she watched with her own form of fascination. He was friendly, but had slid into a manner resembling a stern politeness. To her, it felt subtlety rehearsed and she could see how easily it could be misinterpreted as austerity. This was absolutely a false state. A charade, even. She probably wouldn't have even been able to decipher it without the contrast of his completely opposite behaviour around her. The realisation made her frown.

The cashier finished putting everything into a bag and Clara moved to pay.

"Fuck off," John grinned, narrowing his eyes at her bankcard with amusement and pressing his hand over the machine so she couldn't use it.

"I'm not expecting you to pay," she said firmly, meeting his gaze.

His smile extended, regarding her with curiosity for another moment. "You're so funny. Get out of the way." He pushed her aside gently and pulled his wallet from inside his coat. "I'm doing myself a favour, anyway. The more money I spend, the less I'll have to give River."

The argument wasn't worth it so she conceded with a shrug, sliding her purse back into her coat. The total was less than twenty pounds but she realised with a proper wave of conscious thought that she was standing next to the wealthiest person she had probably ever met. Regardless of whatever was happening with his imminent divorce, he must have complete financial freedom. It was a strange concept. She wondered what he usually spent money on. Not food, obviously. Suits.

"Coming?"

She snapped out her pondering state and followed him out the building.

"That was the best thing I've done in ages," John exclaimed as they returned to the road, making their path back to her house. Clara smiled at him, thinking he couldn't be serious, but when his bright eyes and eager smile told her otherwise, she felt a sudden rush of sadness.

"Can you... really not even go to the supermarket?" she asked gently, unable to help the note of regret in her tone.

John shook his head and averted his eyes back to the footpath, realising what his comment admitted. "Ah… no," he responded quietly, honestly. "Well, I could. Of course I could."

He paused, running his free hand over his jaw. "Donna gets me what I need," he explained. "If I ask nicely. It's stupid, I know."

He looked sheepish, well aware of how very much not-normal it was. Clara dropped the enquiry, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. She quizzed him instead on her favourite topic. English literature. They could talk about Wells. She was pretty sure he'd have some amusingly insightful comment on an invasion of late Victorian England by Martians.


	8. When We Were Young

**Chapter 8: When We Were Young**

* * *

Complete ignorance to almost everything cooking related and total incompetence in what should have been rudimentary skills broke Clara almost immediately. At first she tried to hide her amusement, but then gave up completely when he asked how to use a vegetable peeler. She was almost helpless to stop her response, in a near-death state of laughter for forty five minutes with the country's most famous musician attempting to boil water by simply staring at it. John managed to maintain a run of indignant protests about victimisation and mistreatment until he finally accepted the fact she wasn't going to be able to stop. He started laughing himself, breaking his feigned disgruntlement and she managed to pull herself together enough to instruct him through chopping, frying, _yes that is burning,_ and rice creation.

He had thrown his jacket onto the couch and sent his tie after it, refusing an apron— _Clara, I wouldn't be seen dead in that thing_ —rolling up his sleeves instead and undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. She had to look away in an attempt to ignore her concerning reaction to his minimal undressing. The wry ' _would you rather I just take my clothes off completely?'_ shut her up rather fast as she warned him not to get any food related accidents on his shirt if he was insistent to remain apron-free. Smirking, he followed her instructions well, slow and assiduous with the tasks, trying to chop carrots evenly and measuring water to the exact millimeter required with a concentrated frown. He grinned widely at his plate when they finally sat down, clearly admiring his work.

"Proud of yourself?" she asked, enjoying his more subtle delight.

"Yes," he replied, averting his curving smile to her. "Very."

He was a little hesitant in starting conversation but when she asked about his day, he told her animatedly about the three musicians he was currently working with in the studio, his eyes turning bright and radiant, captured with enthusiasm. She didn't understand everything he was saying, the finer details about _transitions_ and _chords progressions_ a little beyond her comprehension, reaching into territory that sounded strangely enigmatic coming from his mouth, but it didn't matter. His ardent speech was more than captivating, words weaving together in a peaceful but vibrant flow that made her want to ask him to read her a book out loud so she could listen to him continuously speak like this. She decided, probably for the best, not to suggest it.

He had inattentively separated the food on his plate into colours, eating in sections rather than all together. Noticing her watching him eat the final bit of the green section, he paused, tapping his fork lightly on the ceramic. "I don't know why I do that," he admitted, a bit sheepish. "Stupid habit."

"I'd like to see you try and do it with soup," she smiled.

He laughed and then smiled back before falling silent. She kept her eyes on him, suddenly a little fixated on his face. "You have a scar on your head," she told him absently, distracted by a red line running from his temple into his hair.

His returning smile was etched with a slightly dry slant. "Do I?"

She realised the brainless idiocy of her remark and blushed a little. John ran a finger back and forth from temple to the top of his ear.

"How?"

"Old… fight. With Eddie and Hamish."

She blinked and he grinned as he noted her obliviousness.

"The other ones _,"_ he explained, humoured. "The less important ones, _obviously."_ The grin increased.

"Ah, right." Clara wondered how bashful her expression was coming across as. "I'm sure it's becoming rather clear that I don't actually know much about you or Gallifrey's illustrious career."

"We've only just met," he shrugged. "You're not supposed to know."

"Okay… so," she started, "what is it you do for a living then, John?"

"Well… I'm in a band," he smiled, playing along as she raised her eyebrows. "We do okay. Eddie, bass. Hamish, drums. And I… do the rest. This happened after a show." He touched his head. "We were always a little rough with each other."

"You fought physically?"

John smiled and then hummed. "Oh, yes. When we were young."

"How did that happen?" She eyed the scar, wondering why she hadn't noticed it before.

"Fell into a table."

"Jesus," she frowned. "Were you okay?"

"Still breathing," he replied casually. "An accident. Just a bit of blood."

"Why?"

"Oh, well," he said quietly, small smile touching his mouth. "I was being very annoying. The three of used to fight when we didn't know how to solve our problems."

"What problems?"

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and then bit down, regarding her curiously. The intrusiveness of the question hit her and she backtracked before he could say anything further. "Sorry," she blinked. "You don't need to answer that."

"It's okay. I don't mind." His smile faltered and he swallowed, speaking slowly. "Fame has always been a little tricky for me to deal with. It's made some things difficult. So. I've decided I like cooking."

The sudden change of topic threw her. John cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat. She realigned quickly and followed his direction.

"Yeah? You should buy a recipe book."

"I could be a chef," he mused, looking towards the kitchen bench. "What else could I make in my kitchen?"

"Mmm… Pasta?"

"Is that hard?"

She shook her head, smiling. "No. Well within your new skill set. You'll have to go back to the supermarket. You could make anything."

He frowned, tapping the handle of his fork quietly into the table and then looking up to her. "I'm not very, ah… _good_ at being in public spaces. I find it a little… difficult."

"Because people stop you?"

"Well, sort of. One person is fine. Like before. No—that's not it. That's not the problem. I don't have a people-phobia or anything," he explained, frowning. "Far from it. I like meeting people that I've had an impact on. It's a very surreal experience. But I still feel…" He slid his palm absently over his chest and onto his throat, and then dropped it back to the table, realising what he was doing.

"I thought I would get used to it when it started happening," he said quietly. "All the people. All the cameras and the attention. But I only ever got used to _expecting_ it was going to happen. Not the happening itself."

She tried to put herself in his position and empathise, all those years and years of consistent attention, and felt slightly sick thinking about it. It must have had a huge toll on his personal life. Privacy issues. Always being watched and analysed. It was probably impossible to imagine the full extent of it without experiencing it first hand. But her thoughts slivered back to the crowd from last week. If it had been even a fraction of that, then… She wondered how she would deal with it. Perhaps not well.

 _You were arrested for assault._

She'd seen it, she realised. In his eyes. That raw fear. She felt a sudden deep and unexpected surge of protectiveness looking at his soft and vulnerable expression.

"I'm just not very good with people in situations I don't want to be in. It gets a little overwhelming." John swallowed. "A lot overwhelming. There's a lot of pressure to be… an expectation. And I just always think I'm going to disappoint. That I won't be who they expect and won't be fooled by the… pretence. Because really, Clara—" He leant forward slightly, eyes insistant with glowing honesty. "I'm just a scrawny kid from an un-insulated flat in Glasgow writing love songs for a dog and wishing he was someone else."

"All right," she said slowly with insouciant impassiveness through her fork. "You've got some issues, clearly."

He grinned at her off-handedness to his predicament and exhaled with amusement. "Calm the fuck down, right?"

"Yeah. Calm down," she repeated, but wasn't able to put a shred emphasis into it. The only thing she felt like doing was giving him a hug.

"So, in conclusion, I don't really like going anywhere by myself," he finished, twirling his fork absently and giving her a weak smile. "Need someone I can focus on. Who can give me an escape route."

"I'll take you to the supermarket whenever you want," she murmured, realising she was completely serious as the words left her mouth.

His returning gaze was unreadable. Soft, but… She couldn't tell.

"I should be taking you to the supermarket," he said, not taking his eyes from her. "There's no food in your refrigerator."

"Yeah, I'm… I'm not hungry," she mumbled, feeling an immediate need to be sincere with him, caught in this odd enclosure of honesty.

"When do you eat?"

"Ah," she swallowed, blinking through his gentle stare. "At work and…"

"Three meals," he said quietly when she trailed away. "You need to eat. It will help—"

A sudden loud crash of _something_ from outside broke their shared gaze. They snapped their attention towards the sliding glass door.

"Ah… probably just… Margaret Thatcher, right?"

"Your cat, Clara," John shrugged. "Does she usually announce herself through destruction?"

She shook her head, staring at the glass. "No. But... no one would go around the side of the house though. For a photo? That would be trespassing. Definitely against the law."

John smiled wryly. "Happened to me before. But if it is, I will destroy them so completely they won't be able to—"

Another clattering of unidentified noise, closer again.

"Not physically," he added slowly, lowering his voice. "Just emotionally. And financially." Frowning, John reached out his hand, hushing her even though she was silent. "Shhh. Can you hear footsteps?"

"What?!"

"Shhh."

Clara strained her ears. "Can't hear anything. Can you?"

"Maybe. Not sure. Let's just..." John grinned at her. "Turn off the lights. Get the chainsaw and hide on the couch."

He stood up and went to the door, the removal of the lights eliminating the reflection on the glass. She forfeited the chainsaw and went straight to the couch, peering over the edge and playing along with the silly game. Their captured moment from the table dispersed with the immediate rush of ludic distraction.

"See anything?"

"No."

"Maybe you should move away from the door," she suggested casually.

"Afraid it's an axe murderer?"

"No... Why would an axe murderer be at my house?"

"To murder with an axe. It's in their job description. Don't worry. I'll protect you. With all my… protecting skills."

"How?" she questioned skeptically.

John jumped away from the glass and vaulted over the couch, landing beside her and avoiding the question with a grin. "I don't want to die by axe. Too messy."

"Stop saying it's an axe murderer! It's just a… squirrel."

"If it's a squirrel, why are you hiding behind the couch?" He raised his eyebrows.

"I'm scared of large rodents."

"Are you scared?"

She smiled into the couch edge. "No. But you're not exactly helping me be not scared."

"I'm just preparing us for all scenarios. Where's the chainsaw?"

"In the hall."

"How do you expect me to defend us against him? He's got an axe for fucksake. Can you go and get it?"

"No. You get it."

"Too scared. What if he's in the house?"

Clara battered his arm. "He's not in the house!"

"Or she," he added thoughtfully.

"Right, for starters—fuck your gender equality. There's no way the axe murderer is going to be a woman."

John nodded, agreeing. "No. Definitely a man. Why are men statistically more likely to be an axe murderer?"

"Is now the right time to start that conversation?"

He grinned and lifted his eyes over the top of the couch once again. In a low and sinister sing-song, he began repeating the timeless words, _"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, all work and no play makes_ — _"_

"Don't!" she growled, pushing his arm and desperately trying not to laugh. "Not helping."

"Is that door locked?" he asked, smirking and then frowning at her.

"Don't know. Did you lock it?"

"Did you?"

"Can't remember. Maybe you should go and check."

"Maybe _you_ should go and check."

"All right, _I'll_ go and check," she declared, beginning to stand.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. "Too dangerous. He might be waiting at the door."

"That's double-glazing. It would take a couple of swings at least to break it."

"If the door's locked."

"If the door's locked," she agreed.

They fell silent for a moment, listening carefully for any further noise.

"What if, right," John whispered slowly, "it actually _is_ an axe murderer?"

A loud thud against the window made them both jump, and then a distinctive mewling and clawing at the glass gave the definitive explanation to the unknown. Clara breathed out in relief.

"Why don't you have a cat-flap?"

"Because she's not my stupid cat," she replied, compressing the laughter at how silly that had been. "She just lives here now."

"Don't let her hear you calling her stupid. She probably just took down the murderer by herself if we're being realistic."

"If we're being realistic, _she_ is the axe murderer."

"Clara," he frowned, serious. "A cat can't hold an axe."

She looked at his grave expression for a moment and then started laughing properly, pressing her mouth into fabric in attempt to stop herself but rightly failing.

"What?" he asked, starting to hesitantly smile back.

"Nothing," she grinned, blinking in bewilderment. "Just… you. You being here. What are we doing?"

"Hiding behind the couch in the dark," he murmured, smiling. "Imagine if someone did get a photo. Our reputation would be ruined. We're supposed to be the tough criminals."

"I wasn't actually scared, by the way. Just in case you were thinking otherwise."

"Course you weren't. What's there to be afraid of when you've got me around? Defending you from phantom photographers and wood-chopping instruments."

Margaret Thatcher mewled at the door. Louder. Angrier.

"Are you going to let her inside?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't really want to," she smiled pleasantly.

He whistled through his teeth, impressed. "Living on the edge, Oswald."

John jumped up, switched on the coffee table lamp and then walked to the sliding door, pulling on the handle to let the yowling animal in.

"That answers that," he grinned with a guilty look, flipping the latch so it was locked. Clara smiled to herself, taking the empty plates from the table to the kitchen.

Margaret Thatcher wove around his legs, tail flicking in displeasure. "Still like me?" he murmured, crouching and holding out his palm. His query was met with a low growl, but she nudged his hand and allowed him to stroke through her grey fur.

"It will have blood, they say," he uttered dramatically to the sullen cat. "Blood will have blood."

Clara grinned and dropped her voice to continue the ominous quote from the bench. "Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak."

"Augures, and understood relations, have… done something with the fucking choughs and rooks," he finished with a bout of laughter.

"I'm really glad you weren't there to workshop that line with Shakespeare."

"And to think I've been dubbed as one of the greatest songwriters of my generation," he sighed, standing up. "What a joke."

Clara smiled at him. "What should we do now?"

"Well," he shrugged slowly. "I should go, I suppose." He glanced at his watch. "It's quite late."

"You're going to leave me here alone with a suspected murderer?" She watched Margaret Thatcher prowl towards her basket in the living room, tail flicking with her usual contempt.

"Call me anytime for moral support." John put his jacket back on, hesitating with the tie for a second before looping it back around his neck.

 _I'm sure you understand how this looks… to them._

Clara swallowed, turning away from him. She didn't want him to go. There was no way in hell she was about to tell him that though so she directed him back into the kitchen.

"What's the collective noun for Twiglets?" John asked as he collected his substantial supply.

"Um…" she started, thrown by the random question. "Flock."

"A flock of Twiglets?"

"School? Murder?"

"A murder of Twiglets."

"That's probably quite literal if you eat them all tomorrow."

"Death by Twiglet. Awkward, wouldn't it be? Imagine that in the papers." He held up a packet. "Want to keep some?"

She shook her head with a smile. "All yours."

John followed her down the hallway, chuckling again at the chainsaw. He stopped her from opening the door with a quick palm against the surface and dropped the shopping bag. She turned around in slight confusion, not understanding, and then he was very close all of a sudden, arm stretching beside her head as he pressed his hand into the solid wood.

"Remember when we were in prison?"

"Holding cell," she corrected absently, preoccupied by the sudden position he was taking.

"Well," he continued, "at one point amidst those five hours, you were just like this." He put his free hand into her shoulder and pushed her the few remaining inches so her back was pressed against the door. He closed the gap.

"Remember?"

She nodded automatically, throat immediately dry, afraid he could hear her heart hammering in her chest, longing to escape its inadequately small confines.

"You have no idea how much I wanted to…" He trailed away like he had never intended to finish that sentence in the first place. His left hand lifted and he frowned, thumb brushing at her hair and lingering on her temple. The lights outside were reflecting in his dark eyes through the high window, casting them as glittering pools of liquid gold.

"What?" she whispered, sounding more insistent than she really meant to.

"Well," he murmured, "we were very close."

He dropped his hands. At her waist, she felt his fingertips press into her hips, burning her skin through the light fabric. "What should we do now?" he whispered, warm breath brushing over her mouth.

She couldn't answer him, he was too close and any sort of comprehensive response failed her entirely. The edges of his mouth curved slightly and then he shifted to press a kiss into her cheek, lingering and soft, his breath grazing her skin like an enduring caress.

"Thank you for a lovely evening," he said gently, pulling back. "Goodnight."

He didn't leave her time to reply, slipping out of the door before she had even remembered how to breathe again, let alone form coherent words. She leant back against the wood, heart hammering against her ribs, pulse in her ears and heat circling through her veins like her entire body had just been exposed to an open fire.


	9. The Revenge Affair

**Chapter 9: The Revenge Affair**

* * *

"Clara, when I said you two were fucking, I didn't actually mean you were _fucking."_

Jack slapped a newspaper down in front of her, already open, folded to the relevant page. A large picture of John and herself decorated the clear bit of space on her desk, aptly combined with another captioned photo of her entering his studio. For starters, she was impressed, overly so, at the turn-around print speed. The photo of the two of them leaving the supermarket had been taken rather late in the evening yesterday. And if the circumstances had been different, she would have taken a bit more time to consider that it was actually a pretty good photo of her, both times.

 _Nice trouser/boot combination, Oswald. Amy was right about that colour._

The headline and the subsequent, inevitable picture of his wife ruined the effect.

 _ **PARTNERS IN CRIME: The Doctor Engages In Shameless Revenge Affair**_

A lengthy article spread beneath the photos. "Thought you stopped reading tabloids," Clara muttered, pushing it away.

"Yeah, except it's hard to avoid when all the goddamn staff and literally everyone I know are talking about it. Which is the entirety of this city. Hadn't you noticed?"

Jack was angry. Properly, furiously, I'm-about-to-start-yelling angry, bursting into her office without warning. He jabbed a finger into the image. The paper beneath creased. "Are you sleeping with him?" His tone was incredulous.

"It's none of your business, Jack," she snapped back, very much not interested in having this interaction.

"Of course it is!" He drew back from the desk, anger rippling over his expression. "I'm not going to let…" His sentence trailed away as he grit his teeth, speaking through them."It's only been five weeks."

 _Thirty nine days, actually._

"Clara, if you think starting some rebound affair is going to help you get over this—you're fucking crazy."

She stood up from her chair, shaking her head and attempted to fold the paper closed, not interested in doing this with him.

"No—listen to me." Jack snatched it from her hands and thrust it back open against desk. "I don't know anything about the state of his marriage and I don't give a fuck. This is about _you._

"You haven't even seen a counsellor, for fucksake! If you're not going to talk to me or Amy—then what? You're talking to him about Danny?"

 _Oh, Danny._

That was uncalled for. A muscle in her jaw twitched as her own anger began sparking to life. A small fragment that had somehow opened in her veins since Thursday's time spent in a cell.

Jack must have known he was crossing a line but continued anyway, too enraged to consider what he was doing. "Clara, _this_ is what you're going to get." His finger hit the paper again. "You understand how it looks, right? They're going to be all over this, all over you. Dragging you through the mud. Think Sharon Lowles is going to suddenly discover she's got respectable morals? Let me answer that for you—no, she fucking well isn't. You're not going to be able to ignore it, and it's not what you need."

"You have no idea what I need, Jack." She tried to keep her tone reasonable, but it felt bitter, mirroring the growing aggravation coursing through her veins.

"Yeah—because you won't tell me!" he suddenly yelled at her. "All I can do is guess. I'm spending half my life worrying about you and I'm sick of it! Ianto's just as fucking bad and I don't want to do this with you as well!"

She felt cold suddenly, Jack's abrupt honesty freezing the heat in her blood. "I've never asked you to do that," she said quietly, voice full of ice.

"Oh, don't be like that," he exclaimed in frustration. "Jesus. Of course you haven't fucking asked. You don't need to. I'm your _friend._ I want to help. But if you're going to purposely put yourself in a compromising situation then what the hell am I supposed to do here?"

"Can you fuck off, Jack," she snapped quickly. "I don't want your fucking opinion or your fucking sympathy. Get out."

"No, Clara, you don't get a choice in this, actually, because you're not the only one affected by this situation! Think this looks good for me? Having _my producer_ —who is currently running the biggest show in the country—fucking a married man for the entire world to see?"

"Oh, right. Great. This is new, Jack. You've never once cared about how your portrayal in the press might have affected me. You just do whatever the hell you want and leave me and Rory to clean up the mess."

"Yeah, what you signed up for, Clara," he spat, bitter. "And at least what I do is grounded within some decent fucking morals. You've already almost fucked up our show with that really shameless bit of blackmail, so thanks for adding this to your track record."

"Are you _kidding me_? Are you forgetting what Sharon said about you and Ianto?"

"I don't need you to be our champion, Clara. Jesus Christ. We're more than capable of doing that ourselves."

"What are you talking about? What the fuck do you want from me then? We wouldn't _have_ a show to broadcast if it wasn't for me! Do you not understand how much time I have to spend doing damage control because you can't control yourself?"

"Once again, _that's what you signed up for._ And you might be in charge, but I'm the face of it! I'm the one who's going to have to sit beside you, defending your actions because _you_ can't control yourself. I'm _directly_ involved with you, Clara!" Jack indicated to the first paragraph of the text. She refused to look. "If anyone was unclear about it, here's my fucking name being printed right beside yours. I don't appreciate having my bosses at the LTC calling me to ask what I'm going to do about the toxic mess you're turning into from this!"

"Jack!" she snarled back, incredulous. "It's a newspaper headline!"

"Yeah, and I'm your collateral damage for it! Don't be _so_ _naive_ about where this is heading! This bitch"—He picked up the paper—"is going to run you into the fucking ground! You've given her exactly what she needs to do it _and_ hurt me in the process."

Clara shook her head in disbelief at his reasoning. "If you don't want to work with me, Jack, then quit. I'll terminate your fucking contract. Or, go upstairs right now and tell Michelle you think I'm not of reputable enough character for you to be around anymore and she can get you someone else. Probably the more likely outcome. I'll quit instead. Wouldn't want the nation to lose God's gift to mankind over here."

Jack was rippling now with rage. "What's going to happen when Sharon gets Danny then, huh? Have you thought about that?"

 _No._

"That's going to be a really fun fucking day when that happens, isn't it? Why aren't you at least trying to think this through? Do you not understand how _selfish_ this is?"

"How exactly am I being selfish? I've just told you what you can do if don't like it. And I'm not asking you for anything. I don't _want_ anything from you. You and Amy have been following me around like you're my fucking parents and I'm more than happy for you to stop treating me like I'm some sort of fragile glass that's going to break at any moment."

"Oh, okay, great—we're sorry for caring then. How stupid of us. I've got an idea—how about we leave you to your own devices. Yeah?" He threw the newspaper down. "Because you're obviously capable of making really smart decisions at the moment."

The door burst open and Rory entered, face stoney, angry even. A rare sight. "Jack," he snapped. "We can hear you down the hall. You need to stop. Leave, I think. Go outside and calm down."

"I'm having a conversation."

"No, you're not," Rory shot back. "In no fucking world is this a conversation. Leave before you make it worse."

 _The boys didn't fight. Rory is swearing. How strange._

"Have you seen this yet?" Jack asked him, thrusting the paper into his hands.

"Yeah, I've seen it."

"So—what? Fine with you, too?"

"No, of course not. But this isn't the right way to deal with it."

"Oh, because you'd rather not deal with it at all? We should just sit back and let this happen? Fuck off, Rory. Stop trying to mediate. Choose a fucking side."

Rory bristled with anger. "Jack—"

"This is fucked up, Clara." Jack shook his head in disgust, pointing back to the paper in Rory's hands. "And don't delude yourself into thinking this is going to end well. Because it's not."

"Get out," Rory snapped at him again, moving forward and reaching for his arm.

Jack shrugged him off and turned around, slamming the door behind him. The frosted glass panel rattled. Clara took a deep breath, releasing it slowly and trying to keep it steady.

Jack didn't quite understand what was happening to her. It had surprised her at first because they were so in sync with everything else. She couldn't quite place it as a personality difference, and instead she had headed towards perhaps it being some sort of cultural difference between them. His open, honest dialogue was crumbling beneath the weight of her refusal to speak to him. Territory he thought he knew how to deal with, and yet didn't know what to do when he hit a wall he couldn't climb.

"Clara," Rory said gently, stepping towards her. "Can I… do anything?"

"No," she replied. "Thanks." She swallowed, clenching trembling hands into fists under the desk in attempt to still them. "Just… Give me ten minutes? I have the updated schedules for next Friday's set up. We need to go through them before we hand them to Rachel."

"Clara—"

"Don't," she cut in, shaking her head. "I'm all right. Just come back in ten minutes."

Rory hesitated but did what she asked. When the door closed she put her head in her hands.

* * *

A text message from John interrupted the seventh consecutive email she was drafting a few hours later to… _Alison-From-The-Council_. The woman was apparently having a lot of difficulty understanding the concept that if _that_ road wasn't officially closed off next Saturday, hundreds of people were going to unofficially close it off anyway.

 _ **Have you seen the Mail?**_

 _Yes._

 _ **There's libel legal options you can pursue, if you want.  
**_ _ **My lawyer is happy to speak to you about them.**_

 _No thanks. I want nothing to do with it.  
_ _Isn't your lawyer in France?_

 _ **Early return… I'm a needy client at the moment.**_

 _She must really like you._

 _ **It's either that, or the big chunk of my bank account I'm offering.  
**_ _ **If you do want to speak to Sarah at some point, I hope it's obvious I would cover costs for everything.**_

Clara bit her lip and put her fingers into her temples, wondering what she was supposed to say to that. She changed the topic instead; asking the most generic question she could think of.

 _What are you doing in the weekend?_

 _ **Glasgow. According to my sister, I have to tell my niece that leading a life of crime isn't an appropriate career choice.**_

 _Are you taking the private jet or the helicopter?_

 _ **Haha. So funny. I'm driving.**_

 _All the way?_

 _ **All the way. All the way, today.  
**_ _ **Songwriting 101 right there. I'll give you royalties.**_

 _I want the entire copyrights. Have you already left?_

 _ **Yes. Texting and driving. Like the criminal I am.**_

 _Are you really? Otherwise I'm going to stop messaging you._

 _ **Wouldn't I just lie and say I wasn't?**_

 _I could just stop completely to be safe._

 _ **You'll have to trust me then, Oswald. I'm in Lancaster.  
**_ _ **Reading the Mail and drinking sugar.**_

 _Did you… buy the Mail?_

 _ **Fuck no. Wouldn't that be slightly… masochistic?  
**_ _ **Unfortunately, I'm adding to their online traffic instead.**_

 _Well, it wouldn't be masochism unless you're getting gratification from looking at it._

 _ **I'm a tabloid masochist then. Because it's a nice picture of us, don't you think?**_

Clara laughed out loud into the office, the grin remaining on her face as she leant over her mobile on the desk and typed her reply with one hand.

 _I actually did think that. They timed the wind gust to my hair perfectly._

 _ **Would it be weird if I saved the picture?**_

 _Weird because you're saving an unsolicited picture, or weird because it's a picture of us._

 _ **Both.**_

She frowned, not quite sure how to answer the second half of that question.

 _Yes to the former… unsure to the latter._

 _ **Everybody sounds like you here.**_

He'd changed the subject. Probably a smart move.

 _Funny that. Did you know in Glasgow, people have Glaswegian accents?_

 _ **Haven't noticed.**_

 _Do you get more Scottish when you're at home?_

 _ **Yes. I can barely understand myself.**_

 _Where does your sister live?_

 _ **Glasgow.**_

 _Have you thought about using the stage for comedy instead of music...?_

 _ **I ask myself that same question everyday.  
**_ _ **Missy & Chloe live in Giffnock. Outer south suburb. It's nice.**_

 _Have you got a house in Glasgow?_

 _ **No. London's home, by the way. Not Glasgow.  
**_ _ **Moved when I was 21.  
**_ _ **I've probably got a Wikipedia page. You could read all about my life.**_

 _Information I haven't earned. Feels like an intrusive way to get to know someone.  
_ _I'd rather annoy you with questions._

 _ **Can I ask you a question?**_

 _Sure._

 _ **You won't like it. It will sound very intrusive.**_

 _I'll read your wiki page if I feel like retaliating._

 _ **Have you had breakfast and lunch today?**_

She blinked at the message, recollection coursing through her. The end of their conversation at the dinner table filtered through her mind before their axe-wielding-cat interruption. She hadn't really thought about what he'd said. His searching, perceptive grey eyes running over her. She was aware of what it implied, but she'd pushed it aside, not wanting to linger with that idea because she absolutely did not want questions like this. It made her vulnerable, the stoic barriers becoming shaky, threatening to slip.

On the desk, her phone beeped.

 _ **Ignoring me?**_

Clara sighed, glancing at the time. Just after two.

 _No. I haven't had lunch yet._

 _ **Okay. You need to eat.  
**_ _ **I'll buy you lunch. What do you feel like?**_

 _From Lancaster?_

 _ **What do you feel like?**_

 _I like sushi._

 _ **Great. Someone will hand deliver sushi to your office in 20 minutes.**_

Clara frowned, unable to help the rush of bewilderment. This entire conversation was beginning to feel a little surreal. Lunch was now being ordered for her by the Doctor, two hundred fifty miles away.

 _Will it be… avocado sushi?_

 _ **Shit. That was lucky. Almost ordered you the wrong sushi.  
**_ _ **Disaster averted.**_

 _How are you arranging this...?_

 _ **I'm a man who doesn't know how to go to the supermarket.  
**_ _ **I know how to order food.**_

 _Thank you, I guess. That was a very intrusive question._

 _ **Think I got away with though, don't you think?  
**_ _ **Or are you angry at me.**_

 _I'm not angry. Probably should be._

 _ **I'm all charm. I'm going to drive now. There's lots of animals to look at up here.  
**_ _ **Enjoy your lunch, Criminal One.**_

Sushi did indeed arrive in twenty minutes. And, it wasn't just any sushi. Michelin Star level sushi. She called Rory and got him to help her eat it, seeing as he'd brought her enough for about four people. One of the good things about Rory was that he knew when she didn't want to talk. They ate in silence, her friend balancing a ringbinder on his knees and writing over pages in red pen while she frowned, leaning back in her chair and putting her feet on the desk to stare out into the clouded, shifting sky.

"Rory?"

"Mmm?" He looked up to her, pausing his work.

"He's really nice. John. Could you tell Jack that?"

Rory smiled at her softly. "Sure I can."

* * *

A sinuous conversation lasted sporadically between them for most of the weekend. It was difficult without him in front of her to completely forget he was just _John_ and not _the Doctor—_ in discourse with an overtly prominent celebrity.

Clara scrolled through their text, grinning at the ridiculous interaction. If someone had handed these messages to her to read as a third party, she would have immediately labelled it as less than platonic, subtle flirting.

She knew what was happening. Pretending to maintain ignorance wasn't going to last long, but she pressed it down while she could, hiding from it even. If she could just _sleep,_ perhaps she would be able to process her emotions with a clearer head. But that luxury had long been removed. Instead, her grin was mirrored with confusion and a sinking sense of consternation. Amy should be beside her, peering over her shoulder, offering a second opinion and another perspective. Like always. But the thought of confiding in her best friend barely even crossed her mind, just a fleeting remembrance to an option that now felt unobtainable.

It was worth pointing out to herself too, that he was still married. Another part of her reasoned it wasn't actually the sixteenth century. She had no idea how she felt about that fact. His wife may have been cheating on him and he was in the process of divorce, but she couldn't decide where she drew the line on generally acceptable behaviour in regards to honorable and righteous morality. Unable to settle on an answer, she pressed that aside as well, confused and undecided.

Jack's final, cutting words trailed around in her mind, never quite leaving but not enough to deter her from considering future consequences.

 _Don't delude yourself into thinking this is going to end well. Because it's not._

It was just so… _peaceful_ at the moment. Just two people having a silly conversation, making stupid jokes, enjoying a brief instance of simple connection. And then… her back was against the door, and he was pressing into her, and she was pulling off his clothes, desperately reaching for something lost that he might be able to give her back. His grey eyes pierced into her mind. The guilt she didn't want and the numbing weight returned, crushing rational thought and compressing the distant anger ever circling her veins. Trouble, trouble, trouble.

On Sunday afternoon Jack showed up her house, pouncing on her as she opened the door and transferring half of London's wet weather onto her clothing. His apologies were relentless and continuous, a flow of unfiltered words and emotion. Yet they were genuine, and she accepted them instantly. After he had left her office, she'd felt no enduring anger. When she thought about it, he'd reacted probably in the exact way she would have if the circumstances had been reversed. She didn't tell him that, instead just made him tea and told him any more than ten apologies was a futile and mostly counterproductive task.

 _Stop it, Jack. Drink your tea._

There was one notable problem however, that was overly apparent by the way he avoided the issue completely. He was apologising for his anger and reaction, but not his reasonings. Clara didn't expect him to, but she didn't feel good about it. This was going to be a problem. A big problem. She could feel it beginning to spread, her actions easing from herself and touching onto her friends, to the people she loved.

"Is everyone… okay?"

Jack looked conflicted for a moment, unsure about how to answer. "Not really," he sighed, honest. "But let's just deal with one thing at a time, huh?"

She nodded slowly, circling the rim of her cup with careful fingers.

"Hey," he murmured. "You've probably forgotten. Tuesday is your birthday. Red Lion after work, yeah? Just like always."

 _Birthday?_

So it was. Late November already.

"The five of us haven't been all together in awhile," Jack continued quietly. "It'll be good."

A situation for a fix. Or a disaster. Could swing either way. A _risk_ was what it really was, she labelled as she cycled the idea through in her head and picked up her phone.

 _It's my birthday on Tuesday.  
_ _Just with Jack, Ianto, Amy, Rory. Want to come?_


	10. Just A Little Joke

**Chapter 10: Just A Little Joke**

* * *

The bar, as always, was busy and filled with the sounds of people enjoying the fact it was after six and that could probably mean they might be able to get away with having more than one drink, even on a Tuesday.

"Can everyone shut up for a sec," Clara demanded to quiet the chatter her four friends were happily adding to the noisy surroundings at their table.

They paused, curious at her sudden strict instruction. She had only just arrived and they were all asking her questions at once.

"Okay. Listen." Clara took a breath. "I've invited the Doctor. To join us."

Silence.

"The Doctor," Ianto repeated finally, staring at her. "As in _the Doctor."_

"Yes," she nodded. Ianto's mouth dropped open. "So can you all just be… calm. When he arrives. Please. I want you all to… I want you to just meet him. Okay?"

Her gaze shifted between Jack and Amy, imploring them silently to be okay about this, _please, please be okay with this._ She'd chosen not to give them any forewarning out of fear they would have too much time to realise this wasn't a good idea.

"Clara," Amy started slowly, "are you telling me the tabloids have been printing actual facts?"

"No," she snapped quickly.

"Well then why's he coming?"

"This is what I'm talking about," she stressed, panicking slightly. Maybe this was a terrible idea. This could definitely be a terrible idea. "Don't start any of that, okay? We're friends."

"Oh, don't worry, darling," Jack cut into the pause, breaking into a careful grin and putting his arm around her shoulders. "We're all going to be incredibly calm. Aren't we?"

"I'm not calm," Ianto admitted, blinking in disbelief. "I'm already really not calm about this."

"I'm not feeling very calm either," Rory agreed.

"Well I'm calm." Amy grinned and crossed her arms. "How about you, Clara? Calm?"

She groaned, turning into Jack's chest and tapping her forehead against his shoulder. "Why are you my friends?"

"I think we might love you a bit, Clara," he smiled. "Stuck with us."

Clara looked over to Amy, meeting her gaze, trying to read her expression. She was worried about Amy most of all. Jack had already apologised for his outburst and the likelihood of him wanting a repeat of Friday afternoon was low. For her sake, she knew he would probably treat John with at least cordial respect, even if he was ambivalent about the situation. Yet if anyone was subject to displaying the level of anger and frustration he had expressed in her office, she would have guessed it would've been Amy and not him. Clara was confused as to why her friend hadn't said anything to her about the speculating articles circulating in the press. Not a word the entirety of last week. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind Amy wasn't completely aware of everything that had been published about her, across all mediums, and her complete silence was disconcerting. She hoped it was Rory's influence that she was dealing with this without conflict, and not a building animosity. She wasn't sure and it made her uneasy. At least she knew where Jack stood on the matter.

But was her birthday, for fucksake. She could invite whoever she wanted. Plus, this was _for_ them. She wanted to show them the headlines weren't… _The Doctor Engages In Shameless Revenge Affair …_ accurate.

Amy smiled at her, still unreadable, and then her eyes flickered over her shoulder toward the door. "Stay calm, everyone."

Clara pulled away from Jack and turned around, raising a quick hand as John spotted her. He wove towards the table, carefully avoiding a group of people crossing in front of him. This would be completely fine. Definitely completely fine. She glanced at Amy one more time and then accepted there was now no possible chance to change her mind about the decision.

"Doctor!" Jack exclaimed, overly loud and clapping his hand on John's upper arm in friendly greeting as he reached them. "What are you drinking? Guinness? Lager?"

"Ah, Guinness is fine… Thank you, Jack."

"Good man. I'll be right back." Jack threw Clara a dangerous looking grin and made his way towards the bar.

"Hello," John said quietly, blinking and turning towards her. "Happy birthday." He leant to kiss her cheek, lips pressing softly against her skin. The temperature outside was evident on his lips, a cold touch that somehow seared like a hot burn. Her heart skipped and she swallowed as he drew back, sending her attention quickly to introductions for a diversion.

"Ah, John? This is Ianto… Rory… and you've met Amy."

"I'm going to be offended if you don't remember," Amy smiled, careful eyes exploring his face.

He smiled back, shaking Ianto and Rory's hands and then taking off his coat to hang over a chair. "No, I remember very well."

Ianto had a slightly incredulous grin on his face and Clara could see him trying to compress it down. She smiled at him and their eyes met for a second. Ianto… She hadn't really thought about it properly before this evening, but Ianto… She scrolled through his music in her head quickly. He definitely liked John's music. She was pretty sure. Definitely. In fact, she recalled vaguely, it must have been his influence that Jack had been insistent on getting John on their show.

"Where'd you come from, Doctor?" Ianto asked as they sat down. "Being rush hour and all…"

"Glasgow, actually," he smiled, pulling in his chair and resting the tips of his fingers on the edge of the table.

"What—just now?"

John grinned. "Originally and also just now." He scrubbed a quick hand through his curls. "I drove back today. Visiting my sister. She… enjoys berating me every few months."

"All the way today? That's a hell of a drive."

"All the way today." He exchanged a quick smile with Clara. "Life of travelling around the country. Seven hours still seems like an afternoon drive to the… shops?" He smiled again, shrugging slightly. "Used to it. And I saw an entire family of foxes on the road near Preston." A touch of fascination hinted in his tone and then continued quickly as he realised the randomness of information. "If anyone is interested. Probably not."

"Clara's first boyfriend was from Preston," Amy grinned. "Right?"

 _Amy._

"Right."

John smiled, eyes glittering. "How did that work? Did you have a halfway field of wheat to meet in? Bit of a drive from Blackpool."

"Well, he drove. I probably skipped there in the dress I sewed together while swinging my milk pail."

"The boyfriend after that was the reason she was expelled from her Blackpool high school."

 _Fuck, Amy._

"All right, _darling,"_ she replied in Jack's drawling tone. "No need to go through my entire love life before eight o'clock. Span it out at least."

"Lot to get through, Oswald. Which was the one that contributed to the disaster at your Dad's wedding? I forget."

"It seems to have completely slipped my mind, too," she frowned, grabbing Amy's glass and swallowing a large mouthful of wine. "What a shame."

"You were expelled from high school?" John asked, raising his eyebrows, surprised and inquisitive.

"She was," Amy smirked, answering for her and snatching the glass back. "Just the first one. Don't worry, she managed to complete a full education with my assistance."

"Yeah," she sighed, annoyed at her friend. "Thanks for teaching me how to read and write and do those things with the numbers."

"Mmm, Clara," Amy expressed. "That reminds me. We saw Linda on the South Bank on Sunday."

"Jesus," Clara breathed. "Sorry your day was ruined. What's she doing back in London?"

Amy shrugged. "Didn't ask. Looked like she was going out with the _lads."_

"She doesn't say hello," Rory grinned. "Said we were coming here for your birthday tonight and she replied _—_ " Rory stopped to laugh with Amy. "She _replied,_ by asking if you had thought about contributing to your Dad's 'surprise' trip for Christmas."

"For fucksake," she sighed. "Why is she asking you that? She could call me directly."

Rory raised his eyebrows. "Um… maybe because last time you spoke to her you said if aliens invaded and wanted a human sacrifice then she would be the person you would nominate to the board? That might have done it."

"Stepmother," she explained to John who had a bemused smile touching his mouth.

"She's not that bad," Ianto shrugged.

"She's Lucifer's representative on Earth," Clara argued, and then turned again to John. "Ianto just likes her because when I introduced them once at this dinner thing, she thought I was introducing my new love interest. Could not compliment him enough. Impressed her for a few minutes until Jack arrived."

"I'd be flattered to be your boyfriend, Clara," Ianto laughed.

"Aren't you _my_ boyfriend?" Jack protested on his sudden return. "Or are we trading tonight? I pick Rory."

Rory laughed and ran a hand through his hair. "I just wouldn't know what to do, Jack. We've been over this."

"And I'm still happy to talk you through it," he grinned, bending to plant an affectionate kiss on his cheek.

Rory batted him away with a smile.

"Doctor." Jack put a pint in front of him.

"Thank you," he accepted politely, twisting it in his hands.

Jack handed Clara a glass of wine and grinned at her. "Best wine in the house that," he nodded. "Not that you'll notice."

"No, I won't. That was a waste of money."

"You're very welcome."

She smiled her thanks back at him, taking a sip. All wine tasted the same.

"Are we all here?" Jack continued, walking back around the table. "Anyone else have any other surprise guests to announce?"

"Linda's not here yet," Ianto shrugged with casual indifference.

"Oh my god," Clara growled. "Don't even joke about it."

"Linda?" Jack expressed with immediate disgust, eyes widening. "Who the fuck told her about this? Ianto, if you actually even _considered_ asking that woman here then I'm calling our wedding off. Am I right, Clara?" He lifted his hand for an air high-five across the table and she returned the gesture with a grin.

"I'd show her a good time," Ianto smirked over his glass.

"Ew," Amy protested for all of them, smacking his arm. "Don't. Yuck."

"Has Ianto finished all his star-struck gawking at you yet, Doctor?" Jack continued with a sly look as he sat down.

"I'm not! Jack, fuck off," Ianto growled, turning to John quickly. "I'm not. Seriously. Ignore him. He always does this."

"Calm down, love," Jack smiled. "I'm _teasing."_

Jack leant toward John, purposely putting up a hand to cup his mouth. "He turns into a little excitable child when we talk about you."

"Stop making this awkward!" Ianto exclaimed, pulling him back. "I'm allowed to have a completely normal level of admiration for someone _and_ still be able to have non-weird conversation with them. You calm down."

 _"You_ calm down," Jack replied, his wide grin spreading.

"Right, how about I intervene here," Clara cut in. "Before this ends in a break-up and Rory and I have to deal with the fact we've spent nine months organising your wedding for nothing."

"Oh, god," Rory groaned, disgusted. "Imagine that. No one understands how much crap I've had to deal with from marketing because of this. None of you even care."

"I _want_ to care," Clara told him with pretend sympathy.

"Well," John smiled, looking between Jack and Ianto. "I'd be very sorry to be the cause. Your relationship has kept me entertained for months."

Ianto frowned. "You listen to the show?"

"I do," John smiled at him. "Every week."

Ianto's mouth dropped open slightly. "Did you know that?" he directed at Jack.

"I did. Clara told me."

"Why did no one tell _me_ that?!"

Jack shrugged, trying not to laugh, his warm eyes dancing. "Didn't want you to have a heart-attack." He threw John a grin. "See? Excitable child. Isn't it adorable."

John smiled back. "I want to be your Noel Gallagher on the radio show."

Clara started laughing. "Really?"

"Yes. I'll be Jack's Noel Gallagher, he'll be my Russell Brand." He sighed wistfully. "Jack can ring me every week and I'll make some controversial statement about a current social and political issue."

"Don't tease me like that," Jack groaned.

"I'm not! Very serious. I really like your show. Proper radio. Music's all right, too."

"Can I please remind everyone of what happened to our predecessor's show," Rory smiled, raising his eyebrows.

John grinned, shrugging as the rest of them laughed. "I mean, you are Radio 2. Isn't it just tradition to offend someone so badly you all get taken off air and sacked?"

Clara smirked into her glass. "I feel like we head closer to that outcome every Thursday."

"Ah, could I say something else quickly?" John asked, glancing around as they silenced. "Just—thank you, for having me here, by the way. Clara's very complimentary of you all."

"Complimentary?" Amy responded, laughing at the formality of his polite address.

"Well, you're very welcome, sir," Jack said solemnly in a stiff English accent, bowing from the waist into the table.

"Such an honour," Rory continued, grinning with Jack and doing the same.

"What were some of these compliments?" Amy raised her brows, a smile on her lips. "I'm struggling to imagine."

"I must do it subconsciously," Clara shrugged.

"In your sleep?"

Clara blinked and froze. John cleared his throat immediately, the unexpected remark clearly catching him off guard.

"Just a little joke," Amy smiled, sipping her drink and giving Clara an unabashed stare.

She felt her heart rate pick up. It hadn't even been ten minutes. Flickers of panic rose in her at the premonitory hint of the disaster this evening might be heading towards.

"How about we all just stay away from little jokes," Ianto suggested carefully, giving Amy a firm and fixing stare.

"Good idea," Rory replied, shifting in his chair. "Are you kicking this off then, Jack?"

"I am," Jack nodded seriously, diverting attention. "Doctor. You are completely welcome to be here with us. However, there's some important prerequisites we need to cover first. Starting with—how much money do you make a year?"

"Jack!" Clara exclaimed, horrified. Amy choked on her drink in laughter, knocking Rory as he bent forward and Ianto rolled his eyes, clipping the back of Jack's head with his hand.

"What?" Jack shrugged, unconcerned. "I'm interested."

Before Clara could apologise, John smiled, raising his glass to his lips. "I earn way too much," he admitted, a little sheepish but not bothered by the intrusive question. "More than anyone could ever need. But it's not actually…" He paused. "Well, having money like that isn't as good as it sounds."

Jack was no doubt on his way to perhaps having some sort of an understanding of that concept, but the rest of them looked at him skeptically, and so he continued, realising they wanted more information.

"Ah, it was… damaging, actually, when I started suddenly making money. It happened too quickly. The three of us were so young and had no idea what to do with it. And we'd never had, well, anything really, so we didn't have any experience in… suddenly being able to have anything.

"Eddie brought a boat." John grinned, some private memory. "A _boat_ in central Glasgow. We just had it at the house, in the garden of our shitty council flat. Three weeks and we'd destroyed it." He shook his head. "Such a waste."

"Should have taken it down the Clyde," Amy suggested.

John laughed. "Original plan. Relative authorities prohibiting the idea was a bit of a set back. It was a thirty foot yacht."

Ianto started laughing, pressing his elbow into the table and putting his and over his mouth. "I've seen video of you playing a show on that boat."

"Yeah? On the back lawn?"

"Yeah," he grinned into his glass. "It looks like a house party."

John gave him a crooked smile, nodding. "Mmm. Probably. My memory's a bit murky around that time. But I do remember Hamish falling off the side at some point. Idiot was one handed for six weeks."

"Aw, just like you, Rory," Jack said condescendingly to his friend. "Your little baby accident."

" _Why,"_ Rory scowled, fixing them all with an annoyed stare as they laughed and holding up his bandaged wrist, "does everyone still think I'm faking this! It was broken! I showed you the X-rays!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Jack smirked. "Doctor, carry on."

"Well…" John continued slowly, hesitating. "What was I trying to make a point about?"

"Inordinate wealth?" Clara suggested, shrugging with a smile.

"Right. Yes. We were just very stupid with money. But I think we grew up okay. We got over it reasonably fast. You get to a point where you realise it doesn't help you. Comfort and security, yes, but after you have that, everything else you need doesn't tag along with it."

He ducked his eyes for a moment, clearly shy now. "You actually start feeling rather helpless," he shared quietly. "Well, I did, anyway. So, I just have to give it away. Charities. Family. Whoever can use it better than me."

A silence descended on the table, all of them pondering John's admission with various shades of interpretation.

"Fuck that," Ianto expressed with a wide grin, breaking the silence. "Forget the emotional bullshit. I want three boats."

"Just so everyone's aware—I put two pounds in a charity box today," Rory offered, looking around with a smile for approval.

"I'll get Richard Curtis on the phone," John replied. "Tell him the good news."

"Next question, Doctor," Amy grinned. "Let's see…" She ran her eyes over him, contemplating. "Centre right, advocate for some fucked version of the current neoliberal mutation and just an all round… c-u-n—"

"Amy!" Rory exclaimed in a half shout, interrupting. Everyone other than John groaned and began protesting.

"For starters," Rory continued, "that wasn't even a question."

"Amy, seriously, can we have one evening that doesn't involve grilling people outside our little circle of joy about this month's policies?" Ianto lectured. "I know that thinking about how much more tax he could be paying under your fucking party is turning you on, but can you shut the fuck up?" He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her towards him so he could speak into her ear. "Please," he emphasised, gently tapping her head.

"What?" she grinned, defensive, leaning into Ianto's shoulder. "Jack got to ask his question."

"I look like a Tory voter to you?" John smirked, resting his thumb against his bottom lip. "After that speech on my financial record?"

Amy bent forward and smiled. "It would be in your interests."

He grinned back, narrowing his eyes. "You're out of your damn mind, Pond."

"All right, calm down, _mate._ You haven't earned last name privileges yet."

John laughed into his glass and tilted his head sideways. "My sincerest apologies. I read the Graun, Amy. Used to seeing your name splattered everywhere."

"Really?" she replied, a little surprised.

"How does it go down with you three representing her majesty's radio station," he started, switching his gaze, "having an advocate here for the establishment in favour for the abolition of the monarchy?"

"Not well," Clara grinned as Amy started laughing.

"I'd forgotten about that," Jack remarked, leaning over the table with a malicious grin towards Amy. "How _dare_ you bring your treasonous views into this house."

"What do you expect? I've got maintain our consistent centre leftist views."

"Consistently centre left?" John responded, raising skeptical eyebrows. "Not a chance. Do you read your own paper? Those opinion pieces from—"

He was cut off suddenly by two men advancing on their table, a little hesitant but obviously confident enough to make an approach.

"All right, Doctor?" one of them said, offering out his hand.

John took it, accepting the quick clasp. "Hi," he returned, smiling at the stranger and then doing the same with the other man.

"Mind if we get your autograph, mate? We saw you in Brixton back in 2011, I think it was? Properly brilliant. Although Wills here was so wasted he missed half the set passed out under the terraces at the back."

The man offered a folded piece of card and a pen tentatively towards him. John smiled and scrawled a quick signature. "Probably missed the bad half, I wouldn't worry. It all goes downhill after we play Loveland."

"Ta, mate," the man grinned, clearly pleased. "Ah, really nice to meet you. Have a good night."

His friend repeated a similar verse and John nodded, waving them away.

"How much of your time do you spend doing that?" Rory asked curiously, watching the men disappear into the crowd surrounding the bar.

"Ah…" he started, frowning slightly at the question before his brighter expression returned. "A lot. Most people want photos. Which I'm not that particular about. The smartphone has become a personal enemy of mine. But… the more I drink, the less I care." He smiled, raising his glass slightly in salute. "And, I've had years to perfect my Gallagher brother approach." With an escalating grin, he slid into a Northern accent. "No, you're _all right,_ mate. Let's just leave it, yeah?"

They all laughed and he exhaled with amusement.

"I'm not ungrateful," John said quickly, sudden concern flashing across his expression. "I've just got to have some sort of line. Otherwise it's… Well. You probably understand, Jack."

"Not like you, no way. You're in an entirely different lane."

"Jack's also a little different in that he either wants to be their best friend or wants to sleep with them," Amy explained. "Mostly both."

"I wish I had your confidence then, Jack. But I can't stop feeling my best way forward is to take this country technologically backwards a hundred years." He looked to Amy with a smile. "Let me know before the next election what my best option is."

Amy looked about ready to answer that question in too much of a serious manner so Rory grabbed her, laughing and trying to distract her with a tight embrace.

"Clara, you've finally brought me someone I actually want to have a conversation with," she protested, grinning through Rory's arms. "And now I'm not allowed?"

"You two can go off later and discuss the foreign policy when I've had a lot more to drink."

"I've got a lot of opinion on our foreign policy too," John nodded at Amy. "You saw Brandon Young talking about our primary legislation on trade restrictions yesterday? Awful."

"Oh, don't get me started on that! I got through to his office about ten minutes after that aired to ask why he's suddenly straying from six months worth of the party line, and then this woman I'm speaking to starts panicking and giving me 'off the record, off the record' because I could hear someone in the fucking background screaming that next he's going to be wanting to start imposing sanctions for that with th—"

"Amy!" Jack snapped, cutting her off.

"Yeah," Clara agreed. "How about we don't get started on that."

Ianto shook his head, standing up. "I'm getting another round. Christ. I wrote a performance report today that would be more interesting to talk about. You're fucking crazy, both of you." He threw Amy a wide grin and headed toward the bar.

"Next question then!" Jack announced, putting his drink down with an official thud. "Doctor… Listen. I've been meaning to ask…"

Amy started laughing and Rory put a hand over his eyes in helplessness.

"Jaaack," Clara complained as she realised where this would be heading. "Maybe just once, could you not? Is this necessary? Why can't we just have a normal conversation?"

"What? We're just getting to know him."

"Jack's about to ask you about your sexual preferences in a really blatant way," she warned him.

"I just don't want to jump to any premature conclusions," her friend shrugged. "And I've had enough to drink now that I can blame it on external influence."

"You would do this stone cold sober," Rory pointed out. "I've _seen_ you do this sober. Multiple times."

"All right then, Jack," John grinned. "Way you go."

"Well, it hasn't exactly passed my attention— _all_ of our attentions, that—" Jack stopped. "Actually. No. Everyone except for Rory." He turned back to John, lowering his voice. "He's so in love with Amy he can't see straight."

"Ironically," Clara cut in with a laugh.

"Naturally," Amy continued. Rory gave her a bashful grin and she ran a fond hand through the back of his hair.

"So, the thing is…" Jack grinned at John, leaning closer. "You are absolutely _gorgeous."_ He sent a quick look towards Clara. "See? I can do subtle." He returned to his former, more intimate position.

John raised his eyebrows. "Well, seeing Ianto is gone..." He closed the remaining distance between them, holding Jack's steady gaze. Pausing, he narrowed his eyes in curious search and then—"No. Nothing's happening. I think I'm immune to your attentions."

Jack pushed back in his chair. "Fucksake. Knew it."

"I could have told you that, Jack," Amy remarked.

"Got my sexual history written down, Amy?" John smiled, taking a drink.

"No," she shrugged, smiling pleasantly. "But it's pretty obvious where your intentions are."

Alarm bells clanged in Clara's head but Ianto came unintentionally to the rescue, his return interrupting the dangerous direction. "All right," he announced, sliding his quick tray of drinks into the middle of the table. "Can we give Clara her present now?"

"Serious gift this year, Oswald," Jack announced.

"Gift _singular,"_ Ianto made clear, sitting back down.

Rory grinned. "We've combined forces."

"Thank god," Clara breathed in relief, laughing and then turning to John. "Last year Ianto thought getting me a swivelling power plug was a good idea."

"That," Ianto defended, "was an excellent gift! You literally use it everyday. Why is no one ever impressed by my presents? I would use everything I've ever given all of you."

"What, like that foot hammock?" Amy smirked.

"I use that everytime I'm at your place!" he cried indignantly. "I love that thing. It's such a good idea."

Rory reached behind him for his coat, bringing out an envelope.

"Wait, wait _—_ can we sing Happy Birthday first?" Jack asked, drumming his hands on the table.

"No!" Clara exclaimed quickly. "None of you have improved since last year, which was, as always, awful."

"Well, who the hell cares what _we_ sound like when we've got a multiple Grammy winner at the table?"

"It _is_ a difficult tune," John agreed with a smile.

"Okay, get it over with then," she sighed, conceding. "But can you please do it quietly?"

"Can you lead us?" Rory grinned at John.

"All right. Can do. Everyone _—_ key of C, please."

They began the bland, toneless melody and Clara crossed her arms, embarrassed as always. John grinned at her, not surprisingly being the only one of them who could sustain something that was probably in tune. Amy and Jack finished in their traditional mock high soprano and John applauded their final lingering note.

"Thanks, guys," Clara said slowly. "Really enjoyed that. Really, really good. Another brilliant rendition. I don't want to presume anything, but John's got his own recording studio and I think it would be a mistake not to get you four in there."

"I'll book it out for an entire week," he grinned. "We can do all the classics."

"Clara," Amy clipped in a falsely accusing tone. "None of your snarky remarks, thank you. We both know if I wasn't defending this country's future then I would be a popstar-slash-part-time-runway-slash-commercial-model. Plus, these three are only dragging me down. I'm a solo act."

"Even me?" Rory grinned, pretending to be hurt.

"Even you, Rory Pond."

"Does anyone want to please remind my un-married girlfriend that my last name is Williams?"

"We're all too scared," Clara smiled sympathetically.

Ianto grabbed the envelope from Rory. "Right, Clara. If you don't like this, I'll have it and give you an inflatable couch instead."

Jack snatched it from his hands. "I'm doing the presenting of the present."

"We got this for you awhile ago, yeah?" Amy explained. "It's for two, so you can take one of us. And by 'one of us', obviously that means me."

"No," Jack objected indignantly. "We didn't agree on that!"

"You're about to go to Spain," she argued, frowning. "With your brand new husband for two weeks."

"Clara gets to pick," Rory cut in and then looked at her. "But just remember that time I reorganised a whole show when you ended up in jail ten minutes before our broadcast." He grinned and grabbed the envelope back from Jack, passing it over. "All yours. Happy twenty nine."

Intrigued, Clara opened it. _Tickets._

"Woah, guys," she breathed out, astonished as her eyes ran over the words. "This is… a very serious present."

John leaned over slightly to look at the paper in her hands, smiling as he read it.

"Thought you might like to go and visit my motherland," Jack grinned, crossing his arms. "Seeing as you've never been."

"Technically, _this_ is your motherland," Rory contended, frowning at Jack. "We colonised you."

"Technically, I don't care," he replied, smirking.

"Technically, you're always banging on about the Queen."

" _Technically—"_

"Okay, okay," Amy cut in. "Technically, shut the hell up. What's the verdict, Clara? New York. We can spend five days shopping and finding a replacement American of Jack to bring back. An upgrade."

Jack narrowed his eyes at Amy and she smiled pleasantly at him.

"They're flexible for a few months," Rory added.

"Which means," Jack continued, "once I'm back from the honeymoon, you can take me."

"She's not taking you," Ianto growled, sliding his arm around Jack's shoulders. "I want to go."

"I wanted to fly you over on a Concorde but Rory tells me they don't exist anymore."

"Obviously!" Rory expressed, raising his hands in frustration. "They cancelled those like fifteen years ago!"

"Why are you so easy to annoy these days, Pond?" Jack questioned, smirking. "Sort yourself out. We've stayed at this hotel, too, Clara. So it's guaranteed excellence." He smiled at Ianto. "Remember that chauffeur? He liked you."

"He did like me. He really liked me. I'm so _likeable."_

"I like you," Jack grinned. "Almost as much as I liked that _—_ Clara?"

She wasn't exactly taking this gift with quite the level of steeliness as she would have hoped for.

"All right?" Rory said quietly, leaning into her and rubbing his hand over her shoulders.

"Yes. I'm not fucking crying," she breathed, swallowing. "I'm just… I'm definitely not crying. Okay?"

"Absolutely not," Rory grinned, removing his comforting touch.

"Yuck," Ianto laughed. "Tears."

Jack scowled. "How old are you turning, Oswald? Five? Pull yourself together."

Her friends' pretend chastising was enough to halt the unwanted reaction. "Yeah," she nodded, brushing a hand over her eyes quickly. "Exactly. See? I'm fine. I've never been more fine." She took a mouthful of wine and gave them all a _not-watery_ smile.

"We love you," Ianto said softly.

"I love you the most though," Amy smiled, eyes soft with that exact sentiment.

"Okay, okay," Clara cut in, shaking her head. "That sort of thing is not helping. But thank you. All of you. This is amazing."

Embarrassed, Clara glanced at John, expecting him to perhaps be averting his eyes out of politeness. Instead he was looking at her in a way that made her wish there was no one else in the bar and that they weren't actually in a bar but alone in a _bedr—_

Quickly distracting herself and them all with questions about normal events, work and home and whatever else there was in terms of conversation that didn't involve anything that she could classify as a risky area, they drifted in their chat, her friends' intrusive questioning to John easing as they meandered onto more generic topics. Once John was reminded Ianto taught secondary school chemistry _—_ Jack must have surely brought it up at some point on the radio _—_ he became fixated on the subject. Ianto, clearly taken by surprise at the interest, answered John's questions with startled bewilderment until he lost the slightly shy response and they delved into discussing something the rest of them had no comprehension in.

The table was periodically interrupted _—_ people, fans, wanting to talk to John, requesting autographs and photos _—_ the latter _expertly_ declined with amiable smiles and offers instead of a scribble of his name. Clara watched his interactions with approaching strangers with the same curious fascination she had felt in the supermarket the previous week. He slid into a state of calm courtesy with practiced ease each time. His manner became much more formal, a refined, stern politeness laced with sincere gratitude as people expressed their thanks and extended compliments. Jack had much of the same treatment but as Clara was used to being around his affable, welcoming and more vocal attitude towards the attention, the difference between their manners was even more apparent.

Amy protested the _electronic-structures-of-high-temperature-superconductors_ conversation until the _trade-restriction-sanction-imposing-foreign-thing_ discussion became inevitable and she engaged John with lively enthusiasm into whatever the hell that was about.

After fifteen or so minutes, Clara leaned a little closer into Rory, stopping their conversation. "Does Amy have work tomorrow?" she asked him quietly, watching her friend laugh around her current glass of wine.

He sighed, nodding. "Yeah. She does. Friday too, by the way. And, yes, I know, I know. But I don't want to start a... fight with her, Clara. She's um… not had that great of a day."

"Okay," Clara nodded, understanding. "Just… she's reaching the point where she's going to regret it."

"I know. I'll start her on water after this debate finishes." Rory narrowed his eyes, frowning at the animated conversation. "I'm glad you've brought someone she can have a proper _discussion_ with. The four of us are all so inadequate."

"I should have known this was going to happen," she sighed, smiling. "They're going to end up fighting. Which is annoying, because I'm pretty sure they're on the same side."

"How about I shut this down then. God. Chemistry _and_ politics? Does he like cars, too? I like cars."

Rory performed his well practiced intervening tactics, banging his hand on the table authoritively. "Both of you need to apologise to the entire room," he instructed firmly. "Right now. Amy, can you talk to me, please. I want to tell you all about my views on... civil contingencies and resilience… and company law reform. Whatever those are."

John laughed, sending out a vague apology over his shoulder while Amy looped her arm around Rory and did as he wished, kissing the side of his mouth.

"Defending our country's conservative values?" Clara asked John as he drew his attention back to her, his mercurial eyes capturing her own.

He grinned and then sent an impressed smile in Amy's direction. "I wouldn't want to come up against her in a proper debate. She'd destroy me. My only advantage is that I've read her work so I have some sort of idea as to where she's going to knife me in the side. She's a very good journalist."

"Mmm." Clara smiled, glancing at her friend. "I'm always thinking about actually buying the Guardian so I can check that for myself."

He laughed, his tone laced with warmth. "You have lovely friends."

"Yeah," she agreed slowly, nodding. "At the moment we're all a bit…" She trailed off and turned back to him. "Can't believe you chose the ten pound option over the ten thousand pound option for my _birthday,"_ she teased, touching her hand to the torn black knitwear.

"I didn't even buy this jumper," he said with a straight face. "Just… just took it from a man outside. Free."

"If I were brave enough, I'd be making an excellent political joke right about now."

"Rhymes with stories?"

She laughed. "Stories without the first 's'."

"Shhh," he hushed her through laughter. "Amy will hear."

Clara pulled a face and finished the rest of her glass.

"Would you like another drink?" John asked, watching her put it back on the table. "I could buy you the… second or third best wine this bar has to offer."

"I've got work tomorrow," she sighed, regretful. She _did_ want another drink. "Probably shouldn't."

"Well," he said slowly, "that's not until tomorrow. And today is your birthday. Also… not that it's relevant, but I feel _really_ drunk." He gave her a lopsided grin, leaning forward slightly. "I don't think I am, but I feel like it. Maybe all the driving has made me a little susceptible."

"What did you do for seven hours in the car by yourself?"

"Kept on the left hand side of the road and stopped at crossroads when necessary."

"Wow," she nodded, raising her eyebrows. "Like some sort of law-abiding citizen. Another disaster for our criminal enterprise's reputation. You're really dragging this thing down."

"Maybe you should have been there so I could have talked to you instead," he suggested, a causal remark matched with his glittering eyes.

"Remember how well our last five hours together in a small space went?"

"I thought it went quite well, considering."

"Mmm, the part when I almost concussed myself was a real highlight."

John touched the back of his head almost absently. "Well," he shrugged, holding her eyes. "I liked it when you were sleeping on my shoulder."

Her heart skipped and began gaining some speed. "Did you have a nice time in Glasgow?" she asked, mainly for something to say in order to counteract the heated gaze she didn't know what to do with.

John smiled at her, his dark eyes exploring her own. "Yes, I did. Why were you expelled from high school?"

Clara breathed out, scanning over his face. Imploring, curious amusement flitted through his eyes. "Ah… I'm really good at making stupid decisions when I'm angry."

He grinned, searching and interested, but didn't press her on the topic, leaving it there. She would have continued on but she was preoccupied. He kept running his thumb over his bottom lip and she couldn't stop staring at the action, almost fixated. She forced her attention back to his eyes, which were possibly even more distracting.

"I have a birthday present for you."

She swallowed, immediately shy at the sudden idea of receiving something from him. "You didn't need to do that."

"I wanted to," he smiled. "I left it at home though. Bit annoying to carry to a bar."

"What is it?"

"Come closer," he instructed, gesturing with his hand.

She leant forward, putting her head close enough so he could speak into her ear.

"It's a secret," he whispered. He drew back with a grin and pushed his chair from the table. "I'm going to get another drink. Last chance. Yes? No?"

"Yes," she chose, and then watched him walk away into the crowd, his tall figure cutting a distinctive path.

* * *

 **A/N: "Lucifer's representative on Earth" must be credited to Mr Radio himself, and borderline national treasure—Frank Skinner, who, rather fondly** attributes this to Welsh singer Katherine Jenkins*****

 ****Think 'fond', but like, the lowest sort of fond available**

 *****For reference, Frank of course plays Perkins in PCap's one with the space train and Foxes, and Katherine Jenkins plays Abigail in Matt's Christmas special with the flying shark and the Marilyn Monroe engagement. This show…**

 **Anyway. Carry on.**


	11. It All Goes Downhill After We Play

**Chapter 11: It All Goes Downhill After We Play**

* * *

Amy knew how to tell a story. And usually, ninety nine percent of the time, Clara would have been more than happy to engage with whatever her best friend was insistent to relate to her in the irreverent, animated way that only she knew how to do. Her attention however, as Amy continued in her slightly intoxicated state— _turns out, Kathy, right, didn't even know about the goddamn video, so_ —was fixed on the bar. All the boys had disappeared, Rory on a water mission somewhere, probably; Jack and Ianto no doubt having been distracted by someone to flirt with. She didn't care. Because John was at the bar. And a woman had begun a conversation with him.

He had his elbow on the polished bench, resting casually as she continued her attentions. Clearly flirting, her hand brushed against his arm, leaning in closer than what could be considered platonically-appropriate and laughing in that ridiculous, high-pitched falsetto women liked to imagine was appealing.

 _Who the fuck laughs like that?_

John was smiling, conversing with that same practiced ease he seemed to switch on with strangers. Clara felt a wave of irritation and ground her teeth together. Her fingers tightened around her empty glass.

"Hey." Amy cut into her fixation, punching at her arm.

Her eyes snapped back to her friend, blinking and quickly sending her focus back to the conversation.

"You're fucked, aren't you?" Amy asked, nodding in John's direction and then capturing her gaze again. "As in, completely, properly fucked."

Clara felt herself quailing as Amy addressed her directly. "No," she objected. It didn't sound convincing.

"Christ, Clara," Amy sighed, weary. "You certainly know how to make life complicated for yourself."

"Amy—"

"On the one hand, you're setting yourself up for utter disaster," she continued over her protests, not interested in hearing them. "Which—let's be clear—I'm not happy about."

Amy smiled, leaning back in her chair. "But on the other hand… this is the first time I've seen you smile properly in six weeks. And on the other hand..." She frowned, fixing her gaze towards John again.

"You've run out of hands, Amy," Clara cut in.

"Want me to do something about that slag at the bar or what, Oswald?" Amy stood up, stumbled on her chair, and pressed a steadying hand into Clara's shoulder for balance.

"Fuck—Amy—" she protested, stopping them both from tipping to the floor.

"Okay, so I'm going to need assistance," Amy admitted, putting an arm around her shoulders. "You punch her and I'll handle the verbal work. How Scottish should I go? What do you think about something containing 'abhorrent flesh bag'?"

"Sit down," Clara sighed, fighting back a smile. "I'm not spending my birthday with the police."

"Actually, I wouldn't even worry about it," Amy continued, waving a dismissive hand. "He's been all over you all evening, if you hadn't noticed."

Clara swallowed, not quite able to deal with that sort of statement. At the bar, the woman laughed and pressed another lingering hand on John's forearm.

"God, imagine having to deal with that everytime you go out." Amy shook her head and then smirked. "Imagine having to be _you_ dealing with that everytime you go out."

"Why are you working on Friday?" Clara said quickly, wanting the subject to change. "Can we still all meet in the afternoon? Rory and I finish at lunchtime."

 _"Why_ do women laugh like that?" Amy continued, not listening. "Do I do that? I better not."

"Amy," she pressed. "Friday?"

"Oh, god, it's some conflict over Christmas schedules. Did I introduce you to Tom when you came to the office last time? He's gone to the US for three months. Remember I was offered that? We're all fighting over who's covering him. I'm pretty sure it'll only be a couple of hours in the morning. Internal politics." She grinned. "Worse than outside.

"Then… nails. We need to get our nails done. _You_ need to get your nails done. Do you think they've got some sort of nutritional value or something?" Amy scanned speculative eyes over her face. "Why haven't you slept together yet? I'm honestly surprised."

 _Christ,_ her friend was perceptive. Or, she herself was far too obvious. Probably both. There was no way to answer this question. She just swallowed and blinked, trying helplessly to think of something to say.

Clara felt a hand on her arm and turned to find herself looking into the eyes of a contender for the most famous musician in the country.

"Sorry about the wait," John apologised with a smile, sitting down and pushing a glass towards her.

"Friend of yours, Doctor?" Amy asked, nodding in the direction he'd just come from.

Clara tried to kick her foot but she ignored it.

"At the bar?" he asked, raising his eyebrows before a wry smile curved his mouth. "Oh, you know how it is. It's not a proper evening out until I've been asked home by at least five women."

 _That bitch._

"That _bitch!"_ Amy exclaimed, making a start to clamber out of her chair again.

"Amy, let's not get kicked out of our favourite bar," came Rory's sensible suggestion as he put his hands on her shoulders.

"Rory Pond, where've you _been?"_ Amy slurred, reaching to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss.

Clara breathed out a sigh of relief. Amy was more drunk than she had realised and Rory's timely return was a welcome distraction. She watched her friend, feeling proper anxiety now. Amy was putting her in a dangerously uncomfortable position. She knew her habits too well. This was reckless behaviour. Subtlety wasn't exactly high on her priority list even at the most sober of times, if it had ever been there in the first place. She breathed out again slowly. This _risk_ , this risk.

John looked towards her and shifted to close the distance between them. He leaned in, capturing her eyes and sliding his arm over the back of her chair. "That's two out of five," he murmured with a smile, "if you include Jack's flirting."

"Do you ever say yes to those women?" she asked, holding his gaze.

His eyes narrowed, cautious. "Why do you want to know?"

She swallowed, feeling her heart shift up a gear. Couldn't he just answer the question?

"I'm interested," she replied. Casual and calm. Well done.

His eyes burned relentlessly into hers. Still grey. Slightly glazed from alcohol. "Sometimes."

"How often?" If Amy was reckless, what the hell was this called?

John ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, regarding her carefully. "Occasionally. If I want to. If they want to."

"Even though you're still married?"

He lifted his shoulders very fractionally. "I haven't been married in a very long time."

Clara's eyes flickered back to the woman who was now talking with her group of friends. "She's very attractive."

"Yes."

"You're not under any obligation to stay."

He leant forward, closer again, eyes unblinking and completely unreadable. "I don't think it would be very polite of me to leave with a stranger when you've invited me here."

"Well…" she said, lifting her shoulders. "No obligation."

John dropped his free hand between them and placed two fingers on the inside of her knee, drawing a careful circle. "You should probably realise at some point, Clara," he said slowly, "I _want_ to be here."

The rest of his hand pressed into her knee, sliding over the dark cut of her trousers. Her entire concentration zoned into his touch, transfixed like prey under his intense stare.

"And," he added, "just because someone is attractive doesn't mean I want to sleep with them. Do you sleep with every attractive man who propositions you?"

"They don't really ask," she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady.

John paused, amused and then unbelieving as he realised she was serious. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I think I scare them off with my temperamental attitude."

He frowned. Clara blinked, feeling her head start to swim in what was definitely not an alcohol induced daze. He was watching her. Not just looking, but watching—tracking her movements, following her slightest actions with an intense and unblinking stare. The extremity of it was incredibly disconcerting; vehement and calculating.

"Doctor!" came an exclamation from Jack who dove back to their table, interrupting them with his sudden appearance. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or not. John leant back into his chair, hand sliding discreetly away and returning to his lap.

"Ianto has got us into a difficult situation."

"It's not my situation!" Ianto protested, smacking his arm. "You started it!"

 _"You_ started it." Jack turned back to John. "See that man over there?" Jack pointed into the crowd, an impossible request without direction.

"Which one?" John queried, a smile starting to appear on his lips.

"The gorgeous one. With the guitar."

"Oh, yes. I see." He grinned, glancing over to Clara to meet her apologetic expression, who knew where this was probably heading.

"The thing about Ianto and I," Jack explained, dragging over a chair so he could sit down directly facing him, "is that the conventional boundaries of monogamous relationships aren't really our thing. Very restricting when there's so many people in the world. Understand?"

"Oh, I'm very much getting it," John replied, switching his bemused gaze between the two of them. "How can I help?"

"See?" Jack exclaimed, turning to Ianto. "It's already fine."

Ianto grinned and put his arms around Jack's neck, resting his chin against the top of his head. Clara didn't bother letting her groan stay exclusively inside her head.

"Boys," she warned, "I didn't invite him here so you could exploit him for your sexual escapades."

"What, Clara," Jack growled in mock disgust, "is the point of having famous friends if you don't spend every waking moment taking advantage of their influence and power?"

"Out with it then," John insisted, taking a sip from his drink.

"If you play a song, he'll come home with us."

"That's what he said," Ianto added unhelpfully. "From his mouth."

John was silent, tilting back on his chair to look in the direction of the band. He extended their suspense and then—"What song?"

"Any song! Clara can choose." Jack gave her a sly grin. "If she can even name one."

She grinned. "Can't actually." Her attention directed back to John. "You definitely do not have to play a song."

"I _want_ to play a song," he decided, sending her a pleasant smile.

"Really!" Ianto exclaimed, mouth dropping open.

"Sure," John shrugged. "Why the fuck not?" The glass in his hand met the table with a firm clunk. "Go tell the band."

Ianto whooped and dragged Jack backwards and away into the crowd.

"Any requests?" John asked, giving her a smirk.

"Do you know Something New by Girls Aloud?"

"Right," he announced, standing up and casting his gaze to the bar. "Where's my friend from before? Maybe I will leave after all."

He laughed at her dismayed expression, grabbing her hand to pull her upright and half into his arms. "Silly, silly joke," he murmured, laughing. "Do you think I'm funny?" His dark eyes flashed.

"No," she responded, trying to resist his smile and not concentrate on the hands over her shoulders.

"Yes you do."

"You didn't workshop that with me," she criticized, trying to sound reprimanding but not quite managing it.

"Why?" he grinned slowly. "Got something better? I doubt it. That was pretty good."

"It wasn't funny."

"Oh? And why was that?"

She swallowed, shrugging and dragging her eyes away from him. "Just wasn't."

"Well, I can tell you why," he smiled, voice lowering to a whisper. "Starts with J and rhymes with..." He trailed off suddenly and leant back in consideration. "Shit. You know what? Might be a bit intoxicated for the guitar." He frowned, unimpressed and then seemed to be thinking through a solution. "Know what I should have done? Taught you C and A minor on that instead. Would have been useful."

"You can show me later," she suggested.

"Can I," he replied slowly, brows raising slightly. More of an acceptance than a question. "When later?"

She swallowed. He was still very close. "Whenever you want."

"Good. I will." He shrugged and then took a deep breath. "Fuck it. I've played to twenty thousand people in a worse state than this. I don't remember them noticing."

A frown crossed his features. "I've got a secret to tell you." He leant down again to put his mouth beside her ear. His warm cheek brushed against hers. She could feel the tiny scrape of stubble against her skin. One hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers pressing to adjust the angle of her head.

"I'm a very, _very_ unprofessional musician," he whispered, lips touching the curve of her ear.

She laughed at his light confession, but barely registered what he was saying. His touch was starting to become devastating. She could feel the lingering remnants of heat suffusing through her skin as he took his hand away.

"You," he smiled. "Come with me." He pulled her towards the stage, insistent fingers threading through her own.

There was no doubt by now the entire bar knew the Doctor was amidst their presence. John stepped up and shook the guitarist's hand, taking the acoustic guitar offered and engaging in amiable conversation with him while people began congregating as the ripple of _the-Doctor-is-on-the-stage_ spread through the room. It was a small platform, only a couple feet higher than the floor.

Amy and Rory joined her, Jack and Ianto appearing from nowhere to flank either side, waving at the guitarist who sent them a wide grin in return.

John stepped up to the microphone and the crowd around them cheered. "Evening. I'm really…" He paused, grinning. "... Drunk."

The crowd cheered in a significantly louder decibel than before, raucous and enthusiastic, and he laughed at the reaction. "You'll need to help me out."

He put his fingers around the capo, shifting it further up the frets and then lifted his eyes to address the audience. A slanting smile curved his mouth. "Contrary to popular belief, this song… is about a dog called Winston."

The first bars of the familiar song rang out to the delight of the room. His mouth drew to the microphone and he began the companioned words; his iconic, deep tone, instantly recognisable. The crowd sang along because everyone knew these lyrics, the verses embedded in their shared culture. Played in every space imaginable uncountable times, in living rooms and cars and pubs and bedrooms and _supermarkets…_ In venues all over the world, at festivals and arenas and perhaps, a long time ago, in a council flat in Glasgow.

 _Love_ — _I'm saving this for yesterday  
_ _Trust you've seen enough  
_ _I've been here too long to say  
_ _I think I'll try that for a day_

Clara stared at him, feeling her fading resolve do exactly that. The people around her vanished as his eyes fixed on her and she felt herself submitting in defeat, surrendering to whatever this was going to be, whatever he could offer her. She took a deep breath, feeling hazy in the indistinct surroundings. Everything about him was so irrefutably beautiful it made it difficult to _breathe—_

"Fuck," he laughed along with the crowd, interrupting himself but continuing seamlessly with the guitar. "That's the wrong verse." He ducked his head with a grin, carefree in his mistake and started again.

He belonged there, under the shifting lights and the attentive gaze and cries of an audience. There was something very sincere about his presence. None of it was a performance or an act, he was just there, accepting the eyes of a crowd and offering his words in such a way that felt _selfless,_ and intimate, and so ardently familiar that she struggled to comprehend why.

The guitar in his hands was like an extension of his limbs. He was careless with the instrument, in part perhaps being the enduring effects of alcohol, but it didn't remove the complete command he displayed, bending it entirely to his will. The final, quiet words rang out alone into the room, chorused only by his makeshift choir.

"All right, calm yourselves down," he grinned in mock chastising of the the rowdy applause. "I'm busy. Girl to impress, that sort of thing. I've been having such a lovely evening. I wish you all the same."

From the corner of her eye as the crowd gave their approval and clapped for the final time, Clara saw Jack and Amy exchange a glance before looking to her. She decided the safest option would be not to focus on the implications of that comment and instead ignore it completely. She turned away from her friends' silent attentions but watched them begin returning to their table while John stood at the front of the stage answering questions for the lingering people wanting his attention. He talked for a minute before they dispersed, leaving the two of them alone.

"What do you think?" John grinned at her, guitar free and bright eyed as he looked down at her from the raised platform. "Worth a couple Grammys and the anthem for every anniversary?"

"It could definitely, ambiguously, be about a dog," Clara confirmed, nodding.

"Yes! Exactly. That's what I keep telling everyone," he grinned, waving a vague hand. "Well, you and whoever all these people are."

"I didn't miss the 'men occasionally stumble over the truth' lyric, by the way," she smiled up at him. "That's half a Churchill quote."

He shrugged, laughing. "I'm so funny!"

"You're unbelievable."

"You're very perceptive."

John jumped down from the stage and put his fingers under her chin. Before she even had time to register what was happening, he pressed his lips into hers. It was brief. A quick kiss. He drew back almost immediately, dropping his hand and blinking in astonishment as if he were startled by what he had just done.

For a moment she was trapped in a strange space, drifting slightly in a frozen moment, the room disappearing briefly, the lights dipping and yet somehow flaring at edges of her vision. It was all _so—_

Her mind caught up and then she felt like she'd been slammed into a wall. Her breath caught and she took a step backwards, reeling in shock. His fleeting, soft press, a momentary taste of his warm mouth. Her heart either stopped completely or relocated to her head. There was a pounding in her ears, a continual drumming, so maybe, _maybe,_ it was the latter. She couldn't read his eyes. He gave her nothing, just a blank, relentless burn, the colours switching as he blinked intermittently, erratically, like his eyes weren't working correctly.

He shook his head slightly. "Shall we go back to the table?" he suggested slowly, frowning now. The words drifted to her from somewhere very far away.

"Yes," she heard herself reply, heeding the proposal.

Clara took the glass of water from Amy's hand and swallowed a mouthful. It was too cold, burning her throat and then slicing cruelly through her nerves. She slid the glass slowly back to her friend, listening to it scrape along the table.

"That was _amazing,"_ Ianto expressed, face lit up with excitement.

"I did fuck it up," John smiled back, returning to his seat beside her, calm and relaxed like nothing had happened. "There's this odd chord change coming out of the bridge and… I mean, I must've played it a thousand times to an audience. But I _always_ mess that part up. I have to concentrate to do it right. It's strange. My head never got used to doing it."

"Doctor," Ianto started, leaning forward. "Would you like to be my new best friend?"

John laughed, giving him a wide grin. "It would be an honour."

On the table, Amy's phone beeped as Jack chuckled. "Can't believe I'm saying this, Doctor, but I'm so glad you're firmly grounded on the boring side of the spectrum—"

The glass of water in Amy hand slammed onto the table in a sudden display of violence.

"Amy?"

Rory's startled address was met with silence. Amy swallowed with an indecipherable look and carefully placed her phone face down in front of her. She looked up to slowly meet John's gaze, a humourless smile fixing her mouth. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Clara stared at Amy, feeling like she was about to watch a car drive at high speed into a wall.

"I've got another question for you, Doctor," her friend announced, lifting the glass again to slowly take a mouthful of the freezing water before setting it firmly back on the table. Her fingerprints indented on the condensation and she let them fall to the base, leaving dripping lines. "How've you managed to get a shit reputation in the media when in reality you're sort of all right?"

"Sort of all right?" John repeated, raising his brows.

"I'm a tough critic."

Clara turned her head to stare at John. He only glanced at her momentarily, averting his careful gaze back to Amy as she continued her humourless smile. If she stood up right now, she could stop this. She could pull him outside, rescue him from whatever was about to happen. But she had to do it right now, and _right now,_ she felt paralyzed and incapacitated. She could taste him on her lips, burning her skin.

"That's actually pretty good by Amy's standards, Doctor," Ianto grinned warily. "I've been stuck on 'okay when not talking' for years."

Rory laughed. "I'm on 'stupid face but tolerable'. Jack, any change from 'arrogant to the point of insufferable'?"

"Not that I've noticed," Jack continued with his own wide grin in Amy's direction. "I've always had it the worst."

Amy kept her eyes on John, voice pleasant. "No. Danny had it the worst. 'Lying fucking bastard'."

The flash of smiles fell away into uneasy silence. Clara felt her heart pounding in her ears.

 _Too late._

"Amy," Jack warned, cautious.

"What? I want us to acknowledge it. He was our friend too. He would have been here."

"He would _not_ have been here," Ianto cut in sharply, pressing his fist into the edge of the table.

"Not a good time for this conversation, Amy," Rory said quickly.

"Yeah? Well when _is_ a good time?" she insisted, looking around at them all. "That's what I want to know."

The table was silent. Clara sighed in her head, watching the car crash, the trigger on a gun being pulled, the inevitable collapse that had been building for weeks. She knew she'd created a perfect formula for disaster—all of them here, inviting the problem to join them. It had been a risk. And it had been going so well. Watching her friend, it wasn't at all a surprise, but _now, did it have to happen now_ —

"It's been _six weeks,"_ Amy continued. "We've never even tried to talk about it between the five of us. Either we're on eggshells or we're pretending it didn't happen. I'm fucking sick of it."

"We're in a bar," Jack growled. He was agitated now, more than uncomfortable. "We've been drinking. Drop it."

"Fuck off, Jack," Amy returned, scornful. "You think screaming at her alone behind an office door was okay, but now when I want to have a conversation with all of us, it's not a good idea?"

"It's not just the five of us here, is it," he growled back. "We have a guest."

"Yes, we do," Amy agreed, setting her gaze back on John and then shifting it to Clara. "Does he know about Danny?"

"Fuck, Amy!" Ianto exclaimed in disbelief. "What are you doing? Rory, mate, you need to take her home—"

Rory was already reaching for her arm, insistent but cautious.

"I'm not going anywhere," she snarled, pushing away his hand. "We're going to talk about this now _._ While we're all together. _Including_ our guest." Her tone was like ice, slicing into their rapidly dispersing warm atmosphere.

"Am I the only one concerned she won't take voluntary leave from work? Refuses to see a counsellor? Won't talk to us? That she assaulted someone and was _arrested?_ And _this"_ —she waved her hand between Clara and John—"you're all telling me you think _this_ is a good idea?"

Amy's gaze slid between the boys. "Don't tell me you've changed your mind, Jack," she asserted, bitter now. "I know you haven't. Or is the prospect of getting a good interview now more important than the wellbeing of our friend?"

Jack's mouth set in a hard line. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

 _That was irrational, Amy._

"Because that's what it fucking looks like to me."

"Okay, that's enough," Ianto snapped, pushing his chair out and standing up. "This conversation is over. I'm not doing this with you again, Amy."

"I didn't actually want to spend my evening in a bar pretending to be civil with the two of you." Amy bared her teeth for a second, running fingers over her mouth as she stared at Ianto and Jack. "Because I don't remember resolving anything in the weekend, do you? Jack can give her some sort of half-hearted apology and that means everything's all better? I don't care what he told you, Ianto. He agrees with me and if you're thinking otherwise, you're in fucking denial."

"I'll speak for myself, thank you," Jack hissed at her.

"Well let's hear it then," Amy shrugged, raising her hands with open palms. "If you've changed your mind, I want to know."

"You think I don't care?" Ianto snarled over them, pressing his fist back into the table. "Neither of you have listened to a fucking word I've said all week!"

"I'm not listening to your god-complex bullshit, Ianto," Amy contended, shaking her head. "It's delusional."

"I think I should go," John murmured, moving to stand up.

"Stay where you are," Amy snapped, leaning forward and throwing her attention back in his direction.

John met her gaze without expression, calmly accepting her instruction. This is where she needed to jump in, Clara thought. Now would be good. She could probably still stop this. But the others paused, Ianto remaining standing, caught in sudden unsurety as to what to do and none of the paralysis seemed to want to leave her body.

"What's going on?" Amy asked John, tilting her head in Clara's direction. "I want to know. I want to know if what I'm being exposed to in the press is true. Here's my two sources. You can tell me directly."

"It's not really your business, Amy," he said slowly, careful.

"Actually, it is. Because it's directly affecting me now. So let's clear a few things up. You're married. Want to explain that?"

"You don't know anything about my marriage, Amy. I'm not obligated to tell you."

Amy shook her head, uncaring as Ianto bent forward, forcing himself into her line of sight. His voice rippled with anger. "Amy... this is _absolutely not_ your conversation to have—"

Amy picked up her phone and extended her hand to Ianto, offering the device. He hesitated but took it from her. He spent a moment squinting at the screen and then his face visibly paled.

"I told you this would happen," she directed at him. "I _told_ you. All of you."

Ianto didn't reply, just sat down heavily and continued staring blankly at the screen. Jack snatched the phone, reading quickly before his expression fell in dismay. "Fuck," he breathed out.

Rory next, leaning to grab it from Jack's defeated hand. He exhaled as Jack had done, running fingers over his forehead.

"I'm a journalist, John," Amy continued, voice suddenly tired, losing the accusing tone.

"I know," he replied carefully, eyes flickering over her now wearied expression.

Amy nodded, shrugging slightly. "Means I know a lot of people at the tabloids. They're not all bad. At some point, I suppose, a job is a job. Even if you are working for a Tory propaganda machine.

"Clara," she sighed, turning to address her again. "Sharon has Danny. Tomorrow's print. Most likely will expand out into a wider medium after. It's… going to be bad."

 _Danny._

"Has she told you about Danny?"

John swallowed and shook his head slightly as Amy stared at him. She pursed her lips and then breathed out through her teeth, anger seeping from her again.

"If this is your revenge affair, then you need to find someone else."

"Amy—" Rory tried, but it was pointless.

"This is your fault. You understand better than anyone what the tabloid media is like. What the consequences would be. My friend is getting _this_ "—Amy put her finger into the phone lying face down on the table—"because of your fucking selfishness."

John was pale. Clara watched the colour drain from his cheeks. He took his hands from the table and pressed them together in his lap. Amy kept a relentless gaze on him.

"I think it's tempting to imagine we're all above believing what we read in tabloid media. Don't take it at face value. Except it doesn't really work like that. In our heads. Anyone with a shred of intelligence can think, 'oh, this is probably a little fabricated'. But when time passes and you forget the details, you don't forget the context. Reputation, _labels,_ they all stick. And the problem with this article, for one, is that it's not fiction. In relation to everything else, it looks terrible. And you know what the worst part of it is? It's that your relationship does look exactly like how it will be printed tomorrow. Of _course_ you're not under any obligation to tell us anything. But if you, _and_ all of you"—Amy turned to Jack, Rory and Ianto—"think I'm going to sit back and let another fucking trainwreck happen to my friend without trying to intervene, then you're all kidding yourselves."

Amy sighed, weary. "I _needed_ your help with this, Jack. We could have done something about it. If you had bothered to listen to me at any point over the last two weeks. And instead we just… what? Fought about our boyfriends' passive advice? We're the ones that work in this industry. We could have been one up on this bitch the entire week. What a waste of fucking time."

Clara could still hear her heart pounding in her ears. It was an odd sensation. She almost wanted to shake her head to clear it, but knew somehow it wouldn't make any difference. It might have been in her mind.

" _Fuck,"_ Amy breathed, staring back at John with unconstrained exasperation. "What really, truly fucks me off about this too, is that in some other circumstance, some parallel world, I would be so fine with this.

"You're lovely, you know." Amy smiled at him, a genuine hint of sincerity in her expression. "You're exactly the opposite of your public image. That doesn't surprise me, far be it from me to believe reputation over character, but I've never had any reason to question the former."

Amy laughed slightly, humourless but lined with incredulity. "You're actually perfect for her, too. Seriously. I mean, Jesus, we're not blind. You're exactly the sort of man I'd like to see her be happy with. Bit older, sure, but who the fuck cares. And in this fantasy circumstance, I would probably be fine letting the tabloid cycle run its course on this, because I would have already done my duty as a friend. What do you think, Clara?" Amy turned to gaze to her. "Talked this through over wine at my place? A little bit of chastising on my behalf before I even slightly encouraged some short-lived fling with this country's favourite musician?"

Amy swallowed, putting a hand through the side of her hair. "And when it finished, it would all be a bit tragic for awhile and then we'd be laughing about how ridiculous it was a week later. It's hardly the first time we've been in this situation. Or, alternatively, if this continued instead, at least I'd know what the fuck was going on because I would have had some indication from her about where it might be heading."

Her voice turned bitter. "Unfortunately, _John,_ we're living in the real world. And in the real world—I think you know about Danny. You're not stupid and you're not fucking blind either. Her insistent performance of stoicism isn't fooling anyone. So what are you doing? I'm finding it really hard to believe you'd be so ignorant of how this was going to play out, _especially_ because of what was written the day after your arrest. You had the foresight to know it would happen. And now it has. She's a producer for fucksake. That is a networking position. You didn't think something like this would have an impact on her job? You of all people know how damaging and wide reaching this sort of exposure can be."

"I don't know what—"

"You don't know what happened?" Amy cut in, shaking her head. "Let me enlighten you."

"Amy, it's not for you to tell him this."

"I don't care, Rory. It's either going to be me first, or Sharon. And it's not going to be that bitch." She fixed John with an unblinking gaze and finished. "Danny was her boyfriend. Our friend. He fucked someone else and then had the fucking audacity to get himself killed in front of her. That happened _forty three days ago._ And tomorrow, the whole country gets to read about it, too. So thank you very much."

Jack left his chair and put a hand into John's shoulder, murmuring something Clara couldn't hear. In another moment he had stood up, taken his coat, and was led by her friend out the front door.


	12. A Solid Crystalline Phase Of Water

**Chapter 12: A Solid Crystalline Phase Of Water**

* * *

It must have been the alcohol, but Clara was feeling incredibly calm. Without another look at Amy, she took her coat and made towards the exit, nodding at the security guard while he held the door open for her. Under the radiating yellow of overhead lights, Jack was speaking to John, one hand on his upper arm, close and continuous.

They spotted her and Jack came forward, eyes scanning over her face, unsettled and apprehensive. "I can take you home if you'd like," he murmured, offering but unsure.

She shook her head quickly, moving past him. "No. Go with Ianto. I'll be fine."

"Clara—" He stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"I said I'll be fine. Just go."

Jack blinked but then nodded and turned away, conceding with a relative ease that might have surprised her if she had wanted to linger her attention on him.

The outside air was freezing. Literally, it appeared. John gazed at her quietly and then gestured to the frozen puddle beside them. "Did you know there are sixteen different types of ice known to science?"

Clara looked back up to him and he continued before she could answer. "They're named with roman numerals." He continued by speaking the letters instead of the number. "Ice I. Ice II. Ice III. Ice XVI."

He pressed his boot over the frozen water. "This is Ice-one. Ice-one-h. For hexagonal crystals." The thin sheet broke into pieces. "A solid crystalline phase of water," he titled, staring at the floating shards. "Except for space ice. Most space ice is an amorphous solid state. It has a different molecular structure."

John looked at her. "Do you think you'll ever use that information again?"

She shook her head slowly with a small smile. "Honestly... no."

He smiled back. "Well. I guess ice facts aren't really in demand so much."

"John…" Clara swallowed, wiping fingers over her forehead. "If you want to go, I… understand."

The greater implication was there. She could tell from his expression he was grasping what she was offering. His breath expanded in front of him. "I'd like to walk you home, Clara," he said quietly. "Or taxi. It's rather cold."

"Walk," she chose. She guessed it would only take around thirty minutes. "I don't mind."

John nodded and indicated his head in the direction to move, stepping over the curb and onto the empty road. Street lamps resembling skeletal giants towered over them, blandly illuminating the grey concrete stretch that covered a dusky and deserted scene as the urban area quickly dwindled away into endless rows of brick housing. The biting air cut into her lungs but the effects of lasting alcohol smothered the worst of it. She shoved her exposed hands into her coat pockets. John walked beside her, matching her pace in comparative silence.

"I took a risk inviting you tonight," she murmured eventually. "I, ah… _knew_ that what just happened might happen. Probably a bit optimistic of me to think it wouldn't. But…" She breathed out, frowning and then smiling weakly. "It's my birthday. Stayed hopeful for the irenic ending."

"Almost," he replied with his own small smile.

The lights from a lone car extended their shadows and then passed by in a loud rush. They turned a corner and the noise faded into nothing, enhancing the stillness surrounding them. Clara glanced at him again as they continued forward.

"I've known Amy since I was sixteen. We were both foreigners in our new London high school. And Jack, we met years ago while I was doing some contract work at a commercial station. I was assistant producing something and we clicked right away, I've always thought. Rory started at Broadcasting House just after me. And Ianto met Jack about six months after I'd known him. So that's us." She smiled and bit down with a little exasperation.

"Amy on her righteous path. She…" Clara trailed off before continuing. "She doesn't have a great track record with good decisions regarding men. When we were at university she started sleeping with one of her lecturers. Her _married_ university lecturer. It was… stupid. So stupid."

John raised his eyebrows.

"Disaster ending," she clarified. "She's not at all malicious, just… reckless. Learnt a lesson though. That might explain some of that performance in there for you."

"Rory's lovely." John glanced at her, sending a small smile with the reshaping comment. "She looks at him when he's not watching."

"Yeah. She does do that. Rory's so good for her. Really good. It was weird, actually. When they met. I knew he was enamoured with her when I introduced them. Instantly. That wasn't exactly surprising. I mean, you've seen her. Amy's a supermodel. But the guys she's dated in the past have been… the opposite of Rory. It was so funny when it happened. We used to flat together. She came home at two in the morning, drunk and banging on the door cos she'd lost her keys somewhere. Just said… 'I think I'm in love with him'. I told her she was at the wrong house." Clara grinned, fond in the memory.

"Ianto worked with Danny, but they'd known each other through university too. Best mates. He was a maths teacher. So, I guess in conclusion… it was a pretty… _incestuous_ sort of coupling for a group." She smiled and John grinned at the terminology.

"Me and Danny… We were friends, and then one day we just weren't that anymore. He kissed me and it was normal suddenly, and I just... loved him. Like I was supposed to. For three years. He was funny and kind, and he had a stupid surname. Pink. I watched his football matches in the weekends and he liked Top Gear and standing in front of the TV yelling with Amy about Question Time. He always did the washing up and would ring me to say good morning if we hadn't stayed together.

"I don't know why he did it," she shrugged. "Can't figure it out. Amy and I were driving down to Brighton for the weekend to meet some friends for this get-together thing. Ianto called about an hour or so after we'd gotten on the A23. Rory had slipped outside at home and broken his wrist. I guess you saw he's still wearing strapping." She chuckled, unable to stop the amusement. "I shouldn't laugh but it was pretty funny. Ianto could barely speak he was laughing so much and Amy panicked for about ten minutes until she calmed down and then joined in. We went back to London. Danny's place was closer than mine when I left her at the hospital, so I went there instead of going home. I didn't tell him I was coming, I just went over and let myself in."

Clara sighed, watching the hot air transform into vapour. "I was more confused than anything, I think. Because we were fine. Totally fine. So I was just overwhelmingly confused. I didn't feel anything but confusion. He looked at me in this bewildered way, like he thought the idea of seeing me was more surprising than what he was doing.

"And I just left." She frowned, tracing the timeline. "Didn't go home because I thought he'd follow me and he had a key. So I went to Jack and Ianto's house and told them what I'd just walked in on.

"They thought I was joking," she grinned, humourless. "It was strange. Like I had said something completely inconceivable. Danny showed up eventually and Ianto told him to fuck off."

Clara bit her lip, brows creasing again. "I recognised the woman he was with. Another teacher from school. He'd introduced us at this work evening they had. I'd spoken to her, too. I remember having a conversation with her at this bar. Not what about, but we did speak. Ianto… works with her." She shook her head and swallowed. "I don't think she knows _he_ knows. I've never asked."

Beside her, John nodded slowly. She turned her gaze back to the road.

"Danny kept trying to call me, so I turned off my phone. The next morning I went to work. I don't go in the weekends, but I... needed to do something. And he ambushed me after I left the studio. Followed me down the road, angry because I wouldn't talk to him. I really didn't want to talk to him. He just outright said he and this woman had been seeing each other for months. He was… fucking delusional, really. Asking me to forgive him. On the street.

"I told him," she breathed, "I told him to fuck off. Just like Ianto had."

Clara put a hand to her eyes, wiping rogue strands of hair and then blinking to clear her sight. Her fingers and face were freezing.

"I don't know if I saw it. I can't tell if I'm just imagining what I saw, because I keep thinking another car crossed in front me, or something else was in the way, so I didn't see it happen. So I was looking at him, but I might not have seen it.

"He just… stepped out onto the road. And you know, cars move very fast. And he was concentrating on me."

Air expanded in front of her. She watched it swirl and disperse into nothing.

"Someone told me afterwards he would have died instantly. I already knew though, when I went to him. Quite… ah, _messy._

"I turned around," she frowned, contemplating, "because I needed to look at the driver. She was getting out of the car. This lady, forty-something, light brown hair, in a beige overcoat. And I felt sick looking at her. This immediate sort of deep, visceral sickness. I, um, stood up… and put my hand on her arm. And her eyes were really blue. Like, not a normal level of blue. That was sort of weird. And I tried to explain to her that it was my fault. Nothing I was saying seemed to make any difference. It was like I wasn't even there. I could have screamed at her and she wouldn't have noticed. I took my hand from her arm and I'd accidentally put blood on her coat. Stamped a handprint."

Absently, she brought her right hand in front of her, staring at her palm. "Me and Danny... In that tiny moment, we ruined her life.

"When I looked back at him, there were people everywhere. He was just lying on the road. And my shirt… I was wearing a white shirt, like this one. It was covered in his blood." She paused and swallowed, fingertips on her chest. "Then the ambulance arrived. Paramedics. And then that was it. It was done. Gets a bit… blurry at this point. I don't really remember. Shock, I suppose.

"But, um… I'm really a bit _distressed_ about the whole thing. I think I possibly might still be in shock. I'm not sure."

John was staring at her. They'd stopped walking at some point. A streetlamp towered above them.

"I'm going to hug you, Clara," he explained quietly. "If that's okay."

He didn't really wait for her to reply, but she was nodding as his arms enveloped her. A hand slid under the back of her neck and into her hair, his chin lowering so it rested into the curve of her shoulder. She relaxed into him, drawing her arms around his waist and breathing in the scent of his jumper exposed through his coat. The warmth emitting from him began overpowering her ability to think straight. Her mind tried to race back to when she'd last hugged somebody like this, but couldn't remember. This was a very good hug. She felt his grip tighten, hands sliding around her shoulders and clenching into her coat.

"John," she murmured thickly. "Amy is wrong about you."

She felt his warm breath exhale on her neck, heating her skin. "Oh, Clara," he sighed. "She's not. Everything she said was true."

She didn't have a coherent response to that so she just pressed harder into him, savouring how he felt around her.

"We need to move, Clara," he muttered eventually into her ear. "You're becoming a habitat for Ice-one."

John pulled away from her gently, unwrapping his arms but grabbing her hand, covering it with his own. They were almost at her house, the street over, she noted distantly as he led her onwards in the dark. He followed her inside without pause, closing the door behind him and helping her take off her coat. They stood beside the door, John simply staring down at her like he was considering what to do next.

Clara put a hand over her eyes, feeling her resolve breaking under his gaze. "I can't sleep," she confessed quietly, staring at the floor. "I have these… dreams. Nightmares."

"All the time?"

"Yeah," she breathed, rubbing her fingers against her throat. "Just, ah—" She pressed her palm back into her eyes. "Same every night. When I go back to sleep it just happens again."

Clara heard him sigh and watched his boots take a step toward her. "Let me help you," he said gently.

She shook her head, drawing back. "It's my… problem," she whispered, swallowing. "I'm not asking you for help. I don't want you to think I want you to help me. I just told you all of _that_ because, I… I'm not sure, actually. I haven't told anyone. Maybe you're just easy to talk to. But, you know now. And I should of… should have told you earlier. It's probably best if you don't actually get involved with this bec—"

"Clara," he interrupted with almost sharp exasperation, waiting for her to look at him. "In the nicest possible of ways… has anyone told you recently that you're a total fucking idiot?"

"Not explicitly," she replied, a weak smile impossible to resist at his brash response.

"In that case, let me be the first. You're a total fucking idiot."

"Thanks."

"May I offer some advice?"

"No," she swallowed.

"I will anyway. First of all, you're an idiot."

"Got that," she mumbled, smiling again at the floor. "And that's more of an opinion rather than advice."

"Secondly…" John closed the gap, a hand's width of space between them. "I have spent," he murmured, "most of my life pretending to be someone I'm not. I never told anyone what was wrong. I let it consume me, and it broke me in the end." At his waist, he separated his hands for her visual benefit while she was insistent to remain staring at the floor. "Denial doesn't have a good ending.

"You have a right to grief, Clara," he continued softly. "You don't need to hide from it, or pretend you can fight it away. Just because you want to be angry at him, doesn't mean you can't also let yourself be sad. It's not going to go away. Not yet. It's very early. And… it's raw, and it feels like you've been shot full of tranquilizer while someone attaches a vice to your chest and slowly turns the handle."

His fingers skated across his own chest and then rested still over his heart. "All that burning anger you want instead, for dying, for betrayal—it's like clutching at a dispersing dream when you wake up. You can't quite hold it, not for long enough. Not to be of any use."

"You barely know me, John," she mumbled, twisting her hands together. "This isn't your problem."

"Well can you explain to me then why I'm having a lot of trouble just standing here watching you like this?"

"Because you're a fucking idiot," she said through gritted teeth, refusing to look at him.

He laughed quietly, soft and kind. "I don't want to dictate what you should do, Clara. If you want me to leave, I will. But, please understand that when I say I want to help you, I'm telling you I want to do just that. Quite desperately, actually."

She was silent, eyes fixed to his hand resting on his chest between them, gently drawing lines over the black jumper.

"How are you going to help?" she said finally, glancing up.

John smiled weakly, shrugging. "I have absolutely no idea. I was going to start by getting you some water."

With that statement, he turned away from her, slipped out of his coat and then walked from the hallway into the living room. Clara stared after him and then followed, meeting him in the kitchen. John took a glass from the cupboard and filled it from the tap, setting it on the counter in offering.

She couldn't bring herself to say the words, they stuck in her throat and refused to leave her mouth.

 _Just leave, I can do this by myself, I don't need your help or your_ —

He was still in her silence, patient and calm. She touched her fingertips into the cool glass and then picked it up, drinking half of it, swallowing down the unsaid words and she could feel herself conceding to his kindness and his compassion and his warmth and—

"There you go," he said. "I've fixed you. With water. A polar inorganic compound. A miracle. I'm like a Scottish Jesus."

The light remark made her smile and he grinned at her, eyes soft and searching. She swallowed again, trying to keep her voice steady. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"You're supposed to be sad, you idiot," he murmured. "So come with me and be sad."


	13. Transient Happiness

**Chapter 13: Transient Happiness**

* * *

Grief was an absolute bastard of an emotion. Somewhere in Clara's head she was annoyed that it wasn't really just an emotion, more of a broad scope for everything else that was contained within it. She hadn't cried. Not properly. Not on the day, or at the funeral, or later when she was alone. All she had was the numb crush that wiped everything else away, compressing it into separate and concealed compartments.

This wasn't new, however. She knew this state with a grim intimacy. Yet last time she'd been fooled. Time with a capital T, as it was, had fooled her. She'd dealt with the unexpected death of a parent in the worst of ways, and perhaps it had been the only way—with anger and rejection and reckless fury. Last time, it was Amy who had dragged her back and Clara had let her do it without resistance, knowing she needed help.

Grief never really left, but it could diminish, lessen, could be transformed into something sustainable and healthy. And that was what had happened. She had recovered and moved forward, happy and content to allow herself to be okay and process anguish in a less destructive manner.

So this time, _this_ time, she felt cheated. Raleigh, in his own final hours, had warned her—as her grandmother read his elegiac words directly in the face of her collapse and searing them into her memory at the side of her mother's grave—and she hadn't listened. She wasn't going to make that mistake again.

 _Happiness always… feels temporary._

Good. Fine. At least she knew now. She wasn't sure if crying about it would help. If this was how she was meant to express emotion, it wasn't what she really wanted. Her eyes seemed to have suddenly gained a will of their own, however.

John led her to the couch, kicked off his boots and pointed at her insistently to do the same. She obeyed without question, fumbling with the laces, fingers still partly frozen from the outside world. Too slow, apparently. He crouched to help her, a tiny, personal smile on the edges of his mouth like he found the task amusing.

"Sit there," he instructed, pointing again.

The couch dipped with her weight, further as he sat down beside her. Her body instinctively reached toward his, but she stopped herself swiftly before she could touch him, not willing to cross a line he might not accept.

"Stop that," he muttered, not unaware to her sudden reluctance.

She gave in, turned her head into his chest, the threatening tears spilling as he slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her gently into him. His fingers wove into her hair, other hand resting on her back. The barriers started crumbling, all those strongholds she had been so dedicated and insistant in creating, useless and falling like paper against someone so completely unexpected. He held her while she cried, this engulfing distress that had been so insistent to overwhelm her. Time ceased a little but it didn't matter, he stayed in this suspended state with her, comforting with his presence alone, but heightened by his immediate proximity.

For a moment she thought he was telling her something before realising he was singing, quiet and resonate beneath her ear on his chest.

"What are you singing?"

He paused and she felt him laugh silently. "You won't know it."

She smiled helplessly, amused.

"Just something I wrote that I sing to myself."

"Keep going," she murmured, encouraging his quiet song.

He started again, mumbled lyrics she didn't string into sentences, instead just listened to the low, rich sound of his voice, the deep vibration in his chest against her ear. Eyes closed, she drifted in the peaceful, soothing tone. He was very warm. The hand she had on his chest threaded through the numerous tears in his jumper. His words trailed away and she drew back to herself, her control and awareness gently returning.

"I don't really like crying in front of other people," she told him a little forcefully, disgruntled.

"All right, Oswald," he replied quietly. It sounded like he was smirking. "So strong. So brave."

"I am. I've never cried in my life. This is the first time. Even as a baby, I just… screamed instead."

She felt him laughing silently, his chest moving against her head as she brushed her cheeks, wiping away the remnants of evidence and smiling at the response she had elicited. "When was the last time _you_ cried in front of someone?"

A humming indecisiveness met her ears. "I tried it once and when water started leaking from my eyes it seemed a little medically dangerous. Never did it again."

That made her smile. "I can't really imagine it."

"Me crying?"

"Yeah. You're all stern and… impassive."

He sighed a little, the free fingers on his thigh tapping and then pausing. "Just an act."

"I know."

She did know. It surprised her as she thought about it. He had never been impassive around her. Maybe only at first, in the holding cell. And that hadn't lasted long, if it even _had_ been there. The more she thought about it, the more she wasn't sure. His emotional response could be indecipherable but that didn't represent impassivity, that was her not being capable of understanding what he was showing her. The reputation he had established over his career didn't seem to be unfounded. It was accurate of his public behaviour and his attitude but it was certainly just an act. Manufactured and crafted.

"You were very good," she murmured, "on stage."

"Do you really think so?"

He sounded shy and unsure. That surprised her as well. He must know how good he was. She slid her palm to the centre of his chest and pressed gently. His heartbeat was slow beneath her hand. "Yes," she replied. "Amazing, actually."

Clara pressed a little harder into him, tightening her grip on his jumper. She was almost startled when she felt his fingertips brush over hers. The connection sent a rush of recollection through her, like she had forgotten her reaction to his touch on her skin. He circled around the inside of her wrist, running light fingers over the sensitive area before moving slightly higher up her forearm. He drew patterns and shapes she couldn't decipher, but her entire focus drew to the feeling of his touch. Pinpricks of pleasure darted through her. She inhaled softly at his gentle attentions and after a time he shifted, dropping his head to rest against hers. It felt absent and peacefully unmindful. He set his hand against the back of her neck, thumb caressing her skin and fingers pushing through her hair before he pulled back as if suddenly conscious of what he was doing.

Her mind skated back to Amy's words.

… _your relationship looks exactly like how it will be printed tomorrow—_

"It isn't," she said aloud.

"Hmm?" Confused, of course. That didn't make sense.

"Nothing—" She lifted her head, choosing, deciding, giving in. "John."

She shifted in a fluid movement, placing her knees on either side of his hips to straddle him. Her hands pressed into his shoulders, pushing him further into the back of the couch. His eyes were wide, startled, fingertips resting naturally on her thighs. The light was weak but it was enough to see his pupils dilate and erase the remaining green circumference.

"This is how I want you to help me," she told him quietly. Skimming fingers softly over the line of his jaw, she lingered her thumb on the corner of his mouth as she watched him. "Kiss me again."

He only blinked, mouth parting slowly around the fingers she ran over his lips. She wanted— _needed_ —this moment from him, something she knew he could give her.

"I shouldn't have done that," he breathed, swallowing. "I didn't let you decide. You looked shocked—"

"Shut up." Her quiet demand had its desired effect. "Please," she murmured, softer, imploring. "Make me feel something else."

"Clara," he swallowed. "I don't want you to think I'm… taking advantage."

"You're not," she said, cutting him off from saying anything further. "Of course you're not. I just want—"

Staring, she tried to tell him with her eyes, but maybe it wasn't enough. She wondered how else she was supposed to express this without words. "I just want you," she sighed, helpless.

That was enough. He closed the gap between them, pressed his lips into hers and she felt herself falling apart. There was no confusion or anxiety, no doubt or guilt or weight on her conscience. All she felt was complete clarity that this was exactly the right thing to be doing. She hadn't been sure. Not entirely because everything was too early, and _this_ was probably supposed to be confusing and guilty, and when it wasn't, she almost laughed into his mouth.

Their lips parted carefully, tasting each other. He kissed her softly, slowly, opening her mouth as he grew in confidence. His mouth was soft and warm, lingering with a trace of alcohol, but sweet and intoxicating all the same. His tongue swiped hers and she melted into him as he increased the pressure, putting his hands on her hips and pulling her into his waist.

Desire. It was enough to stagger and render her at a loss. As she redirected her attention, it surged like a desperate, sharp blade slicing through her core, the keen edge devastating any want to do this slowly or attentively. She could feel him against her through his jeans. Hard, wanting. He bucked forward slightly, breath so shallow she wasn't sure he was really drawing air into his lungs.

"Bed," he mumbled into her mouth. "Let's go"—Her lips on him distorted the words—"to bed."

She pointed vaguely in the right direction behind her, not very concerned about moving while she was so distracted by his mouth. John pushed her off him, hands on her shoulders, shifting her backwards towards the stairs and maneuvering unsteadily around the coffee table. Their kiss changed as he guided her a little precariously. He tugged on her clothes like he was surprised they were there in the first place and when her back hit a wall, he ground into her, not stopping his forward advance. She grit her teeth when his hands slid under shirt, fingers pressing into her flesh. Too many clothes. The amount of buttons seemed to annoy him and he growled slightly, fingers now tasked at the time consuming and apparent tedious nature of the job.

"I would absolutely have no hesitation in ripping this off you," he murmured into her mouth, lips against her. "Just so you know."

She wasn't entirely sure if she would have minded. Or even noticed. Yet he avoided material damage and continued, pushing the shirt from her shoulders, throwing it somewhere behind him. His eyes dropped and very deliberately ran over her less-clothed state.

"So perfect," he sighed a little dramatically, and the tone of his voice made her want to laugh, like he about to wax poetic something overly romantic. Instead, his gaze set on her left shoulder. The bruises she had from a certain condemnable incident were almost gone, long faded from their obvious discolour and now only light, painless blemishes on her skin. He kissed the fading marks, murmuring an apology that she brushed aside quickly and smiled reassurance before he could get caught up in feeling guilty about something that felt very inconsequential at this particular moment.

John smiled back and tugged on his jumper, pulling it over his head, removing it together with his t-shirt. Another absent discard to the floor. Clara exhaled as he exposed her to the top half of his body. The inadequate lighting just adequate enough to make her confirm his proposed notion.

"Steel," she acknowledged, smiling and pressing her fingers into his chest and then his stomach. He flinched under her touch, muscles tensing and convulsing.

"Thought I'd show you," he mumbled, eyes flickering shut as she continued her exploratory path over his skin. "Seeing as you asked."

He was almost unbelievably warm, heat emanating from his body like he was the source of all things hot. Uninterested in her focus on the peculiar fact, he ran his tongue across hers and pressed back into her mouth. She slid her hands to his waist, his impassioned kiss failing slightly as her fingers deftly undid the button on his jeans.

"Don't get any"—She grinned as she pulled away and dropped to her knees—" _silly ideas._ I'm just helping you remove too-tight clothing."

She heard him laugh quietly as she tugged on the dark material in order to take them off.

"Are you wondering why I'm not wearing a belt?"

"Um… no. I wasn't. Should I be?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Why aren't you wearing a belt?"

"Because I wear clothes that actually fucking fit." He tilted his head back and laughed far too hard, overly amused at himself. She shook her head, having no idea why this was supposed to be funny but laughing at how funny he seemed to find it.

"No one knows how to dress properly, Clara. I'm the only one."

She rolled her eyes in the dark, glad he couldn't see it because she wasn't actually in contention of that statement. No need to let him know that.

In a bizarre moment of reflection, she noted she'd been crying thirty minutes ago. On the back end of speaking to someone about _the event._ The one thing that was constantly threatening to utterly devastate her. Now she was trying not to laugh at the man in regard she was currently reducing of clothing. Strange. But it didn't matter. This felt completely… okay. Better than okay.

Free of his jeans, Clara slid her hand across the side of his hip, over his black pants and trailed slowly down his right leg. Above her, he pressed a palm into the wall for support, breath hitching as she dug her fingers into his calf.

"Your socks don't match," she commented in amusement, lifting consecutive feet to remove the grey and black mismatch.

"What?" He looked down at the obvious inconsistency with confusion and then disgust. "Fuck," he swore gently as she got rid of the other. "That just ruined my entire speech. Do you still like me?"

She stood, pressing a teasing kiss into the inside of his thigh on the ascent and then into his collarbone as he covered her with his body again. "Probably more," she replied quietly.

"Phew," he muttered, hands trailing her sides. "That could have been a disaster."

"Also," she commented, looking up to him, "you were wearing a belt the other night with that suit."

He paused and then narrowed his eyes with a grin. "Shhh," he smirked. "Different clothing category."

A sly smile spread on his lips. Slowly, hands on her stomach and pressing her into the wall, he dropped to his knees. "I like _silly_ _ideas,"_ he breathed, kissing a line of wet marks across her waist and sliding fingers down her legs.

If she didn't have her back against a solid surface, there was a good chance she might have collapsed from that statement. His fingers returned slowly to her waist to undo her trousers while his mouth skated across her stomach. His teeth scraped along her hip. She bit into her lip to counter the whimper pressing in her throat. John removed the layer of clothing, discarding it absently behind him. Her socks joined the pile. Hands on the back of her legs, he pressed his mouth into the inside of her thigh before very slowly trailing his kiss upwards, closer, closer—

"Just for now though," he breathed, teeth scraping skin. "I want your mouth."

He straightened, pushed his hands through her hair and kissed her again, more urgent this time as he started grinding against her, dropping his hands to her hips, tugging at her remaining waistband. She wasn't sure they were going to make it upstairs.

"Bed," he groaned, desperate.

"Up there," she muttered, pointing another absent hand at the stairs, still more concerned about what his mouth was doing to her neck and how he felt at her waist. She pulled him closer and when she felt him attempt to draw back so as to lead them towards her indicated direction, she hindered his movement, tightening her grip. Realising what she was doing, he pushed away with more force and removed himself entirely from her body. His chest heaved with laboured breath, shoulders lifting as he inhaled and released.

"Get upstairs," he ordered, pointing as she had, although with a lot more insistence.

She grinned at his sudden demanding speak, staying against the wall. "Get _yourself_ upstairs."

" _You_ get upstairs."

"You're very demanding."

He crossed his arms slowly, dark eyes scanning across her face, hint of a smile on his mouth as he raised his eyebrows. "Is that a complaint, Clara?"

She swallowed. The residue from his hands lingered across her skin, insistent to make her thoughts blur.

"Just an… observation."

John stepped back towards her, tall and towering. He put the palms of his hands flat against the wall on either side of her head and purposely refrained from touching her. His eyes flashed fire, hot coals glowering with want of retaliation at her audacity. The irises grew thin as his pupils dilated further and she was left exposed under his sweltering gaze.

"If you don't go upstairs, I will take off the rest of your clothes and fuck you against this wall."

Clara felt the world drop away from under her. She forgot how to breathe, how to stand. Her back flattened against _this wall,_ her only remaining support as floods of heat washed through every part of her body, weakening her muscles and leaving her practically gasping for relief. She didn't stand a chance against him. He knew exactly what he was doing to her, glittering eyes black with insight. She could feel the remaining space between them like it was a tangible substance.

"I'll show you what I wanted to do to you in prison."

Only his hot breath touched her skin, grazing like the effuse of fire.

"I'll make you want me so much…" He trailed off, clearly in contemplation. "How did I word it? You'll be… on your knees… _begging."_

Completely in contrast to his sultry and weighted tone, he suddenly pressed a kiss into her cheek that was impossibly gentle. The hands on either side of her head slowly dropped to her shoulders and skated to her sides, coming to rest upon her hips. When he drew back, his eyes were soft with longing and patient desire.

"And to be honest, Clara," he whispered, smiling and then running a lone and careful finger down her cheek, "as much as I'd like to elicit _that,_ I would rather be a little more delicate with you. So… upstairs."

In a submitting daze, she took his hand and led him upwards, taking him to her bedroom and quite frankly feeling in a state to obey his every command now without question. The bed physically stopped her advance and he pushed her down, guiding her into the pillows.

"Nice bedroom," he muttered, hovering over her.

"The lights are off," she replied, gaining a little control of herself as they entered into territory more familiar. "But thanks."

Control—short-lived when he gently lowered his weight, his very obviously aroused body pressing into her over their remaining thin layers of clothing. Fingers in her hair, his gentle and reflexive movement became preemptive of what they were about to do. Anticipation pressed at the forefront of her mind. As she matched his fervent kiss, her thoughts fluttered to past moments in the previous days. Somewhere, she'd already imagined this happening. Blurry images of their entwined bodies shifting and moving together in urgent unison.

But this was better. This was better than whatever her mind had conceived. He felt better, tasted better, sounded better. Reality was sometimes unsatisfactory. She almost smiled at that, amused at how stupid she would have had to be to ever consider otherwise. _Consider otherwise_ … at least she hadn't been that naive. She'd known, maybe since prison, since she saw his eyes, or since he pressed her into that door, _somewhere_ beforehand, touching the edge of her subconscious thoughts, she already knew what he could do to her. His mouth was testament to the fact, but overwhelmingly so, this man, _this_ _man,_ who she barely knew but who looked at her like he could read the entire sinuous map of her conscious and unconscious mind, was smiling down at her, pausing his attentions as he realised a slight absence in her return.

"Okay?" he murmured gently, dark eyes just visible in the low light. He brushed his hand over her forehead.

Blinking, she nodded and stared up at him. Time was still a traitor and certainly shouldn't be trusted; their chance meeting perhaps forever destined to remain a simple offered and aleatory moment, but it felt distant and unimportant in this peaceful state. Wondering if it was possible to articulate that somehow without speaking, she pulled his smiling mouth down and asked for his very avid attention on her own. He already knew. She was almost sure of it.

"Do you have," he started, murmuring, "some form of… _precaution_ I could use?"

She tried, with difficulty, to drag her mind a little more into the present and focus on what he was saying. "Ah… what? Precaution?"

"Yes, Clara," he grinned. His mouth pressed over hers in laughter while he continued replying. "Easy to forget the proper function of what this whole operation is all about."

Her comprehension kicked in and she realised what he was asking. "Oh, right, right, right. Got it. _Precaution._ How politely put."

"Thanks. I'm trying to be a little discreet. How am I doing?"

"Too discreet, apparently. Can you reword a little more unequivocally?"

"Contraception!" he snapped loudly, breaking into further laughter and then pressing his mouth into the pillow to muffle his continuous amusement.

"Right. Yes," she agreed, nodding slightly. "We do need that. How come… How come you didn't have kids with River?"

John pulled his head back, an incredulous grin plastering his face. "Is now the right time for this conversation?"

She paused, considering, brain catching up with her mouth at the unwarranted timing of that question. "No. No, it is not. I redact that question completely."

"On the other hand, if you don't answer my question, I _will_ end up with kids." His relentless grin expanded, wide and warm and full of humour.

A huge part of her wondered why this conversation didn't feel like it was turning the most awkward conversation of all time. She had no idea. It was just funny.

"Oh my god," she breathed, raising her eyebrows. "We would be in some serious trouble there."

"Mmm," he hummed in amused agreement before returning his mouth to her neck. "And you know me—I like to lead a completely stress-free, normal and non-scandalous life."

Clara laughed and pushed back into the pillow, trailing her fingers along his back.

"It's too early for us to consider having children, anyway," he said in deadpan. "Not until next week, at least."

She swallowed down her returning laugh. "Why is this conversation not turning the most awkward conversation of all time?"

"I have no idea," he grinned, nudging her forehead with his. "Do you actually have an answer or should we just lie here planning our utopian future?"

Smirking, she stared at the bedside drawers and then to the door. "Yeah," she smiled. "But in the bathroom."

She moved to get up but he pulled her back down. His hands drifted along her sides. "I can go," he offered. "Where?"

"Um," she breathed, coherent thoughts evading her again while he kissed lines of hot marks across her neck. She pressed her fingers into his jaw and brought his mouth away from her skin so she could concentrate. "There's drawers below the mirror. Top or middle. At… the end of the hall."

"I will be," he replied, twisting away from her fingers and returning his lips to her neck, "right back."

He jumped off her and she watched his shadow dart out of the room. Her skin felt like it was on fire. Every nerve in her body screaming for his attention. She considered taking off the rest of her clothing but decided she was more interested in letting him do that. John returned with the entire box and she grinned at the sight.

"That's… enthusiastic," she smirked, watching him open it.

He took a deep breath, looking at the box in his hands and then exhaled in amusement, sending her a wry smile that was just visible in the low light. "A challenge, but I think I can do it."

John sat on the bed with his back towards her and tore open a packet, throwing the foil absently to the side. "Never quite figured out how to make this part seamlessly merge into the official proceedings," he muttered, an absent comment that made her grin.

"I like your bedroom talk. How about you run off some weird science facts while you're at it."

It was too dark to see his face sitting down, but she was pretty sure he was giving her an unimpressed glare as he twisted his head.

"I mean, you could come and do this," he suggested. Definitely unimpressed.

"Sure you can manage," she smiled into the dark, pressing fingertips into his spine. She felt him start slightly at her touch. "Or… do you need my assistance?"

He laughed slightly. "You've done enough, thanks."

Naked now, quite obviously as he pressed his body back over hers, skin meeting skin in a rush of heat and nerves, he kissed her and then put his mouth beside her ear. "Bedroom talk," he growled, sliding to her cheek. "I can do bedroom talk."

"What do you—the man who just informed me about the sixteen different types of ice—know about bedroom talk?"

She felt him smile, his lips curving on hers as he slid his right hand to her lower back.

"There's actually seventeen when you count space ice," he corrected, fingers creeping up her spine to meet the clasp on her bra.

"Mmm. Tell me more about them."

He exhaled laughter, pausing his task, his breath rushing over her skin in a warm wave. She could feel him grinning against her cheek now, enjoying the amusement he was causing her.

"I could always stop," he suggested, threatening, purring into her ear. His hand left the clasp and slid to her side, caressing nails over her ribs. She swallowed to stop herself making any giveaway sound as he dug his fingers into her side.

"I could get dressed." His left hand found her wrist and he pulled her arm over her head. His right did the same, pinning her still beneath him. She twisted in effort to gain some control back in the vulnerable position but it only made him lower more of his weight onto her chest so she was forced to succumb to the entrapment. She almost groaned. His thumbs pressed hard into her palms. He shifted suddenly so his left hand did the work of one, clasping her wrists together. Straining against him uselessly, she protested until he tightened his grip with a smile.

"We could go back downstairs. Talk quantum theories and particle physics."

Slender fingers ran a delicate path across her hip and then down the inside of her thigh. He retraced his way upwards across soft skin, slower this time, inching towards her centre.

"Just say the word," he breathed, "and I'll do whatever you want."

His fingers slid beneath thin fabric and she couldn't stop the groan that escaped her lips as he dipped inside of her. She bit into her tongue to quiet herself, overcome with sensation as her nerves burnt with pleasure, arching beneath him and then pushing back while he stroked across her and increased the pressure of his thumb. His mouth dragged along her jawline, tongue darting on her skin to run a wet line from her chin to the hollow of her neck. The hand wrapped around her wrists tightened above their heads. She was already too close. Falling apart under his dextrous fingers and attentions.

"Stop," she gasped, fighting to regain control. "Stop."

He stilled instantly and drew his hand away at her request. "You're gorgeous," he murmured softly, the playful tone now gone entirely from his voice. Games were over. Talking was over. He kissed her mouth and freed her hands, and in the next moments she was as naked as he was, material discarded and forgotten immediately.

He was gentle and slow, mouth not leaving hers as he pressed into her, but his kiss a little absent as their focus shifted. His next inhale was staggered and erratic, and Clara clamped her mouth closed to keep herself from crying out. Panting for air, his fists clenched into the sheets and his forehead pressed down into the pillow beside her, the material clenched between his teeth as he bit down hard, groaning. His breathing stopped suddenly and he lay like stone above her. It would have been disconcerting if it wasn't for the rapid cycle of his heart against her chest. She ran her hands up the back of his neck and threaded her fingers through his soft hair, wanting, _needing_ him to move. He groaned again in utter helplessness as if furiously fighting for control, and for a moment she could feel the beginnings of how he might break apart. She kissed his cheek and he turned his head, breathing heat across her skin.

"Clara," he murmured, her name passing through his lips strained with desire.

He thrust forward, hard, and her breath escaped with the rest of his self-control. Her head pushed back and he curved his body into hers, crushing into her mouth, and she plummeted into that place where only pleasure existed. His kisses were urgent and pressing, molding firmly over her lips before sliding to run along her jaw and find the soft skin below her ear. She fought again for control while he flooded in as a wave, clutching desperately at her own reality, the feel of this new body against hers, the press of the bed behind her. But it was too much, far too much. He occupied her mind entirely and the sense of herself began fading, blanking, melding with his own. The world around her disappeared in desire and lust and the overwhelming power of just how much she wanted him. There was nothing she could grasp, nothing she could hold onto. She surrendered completely, carried in the turmoil of pleasure, spiralling away like leaves in a tornado. He was everywhere. His hands were everywhere, digging into her hips, running over her chest, twisting through her hair. Her fingers dug into his arms while the tip of his tongue ran over the width of her throat and slid down her neck with kisses.

He moved like he knew her. What she wanted, he gave, without instruction or direction, he just knew and she didn't understand it at all. There was no comprehension for an impossible feat, but then again, he'd been in her head. Maybe it bordered in the realms of _instinct,_ embedded innately within, created perhaps from moments, or time, or something greater than she could conceive.

His erratic breaths turned to groans, their reciprocal movement now impulsive and without thought. Anticipation seemed to build endlessly, closer and closer towards their shared goal. Her breathing stopped, air refusing to reach her lungs, unnecessary as the need for it diminished. At the brink of the collapse there was a fraction of nothingness, a moment of pure emptiness and space, until it broke—

Like glass being dropped from an unrivaled, precipitous height, her body shattered into a thousand pieces of sharp and viciously edged shards. He moaned conclusion in her ear and she cried out, in her head or aloud, she didn't know. The shards tore through her without restraint, followed by the torrent of an impossible wave that brought with it the rawest of emotion, violently unrestricted and ineffable. She thought, perhaps, if it was possible, she might have passed out for a moment. Difficult to tell, but her consciousness felt threatened in the engulfing rush, her body swaying on the brink of blackness until she felt herself being slowly dragged back with hands and mouth and skin, an embrace to urge a return to his presence. His heavy intakes of air were ragged and deep, that she supposed, were replicant of her own.

"Oh my god," he breathed in her ear, absent and barely audible, but at least articulating some part of the vehement, swirling bliss that remained to sear in her veins. His hands were tangled in her hair, one arm wrapped around the back of neck. She turned her head to press her mouth into his bicep, breathing in his skin. She swallowed, wanting to bite down on him. Instead she let her teeth scrape against his muscle as his convulsing and trembling body stilled over her.

John propped himself up on his forearms, gently easing his weight from her chest. She blinked as he swam into focus, dark in the low light, but close enough that she could make out his features.

His mouth was partly open like he was reeling in stunned amazement, blinking as she was. "We should," he started slowly before clearing his throat. "We should probably do that again. Right now."

"Already?" she replied, bemused, her rational senses returning as his soft voice interrupted their hazy and indistinct surrounds.

The edges of his mouth quirked into a smile. "Well. Give me a second. I sometimes delude myself into thinking I'm physically superior to everyone on this planet."

Clara grinned helplessly as he smiled back, eyes hot with desire. "Well I'm not," she remarked.

He breathed out in laughter. "You are."

The compliment caught her off-guard and he smiled softly as she blinked at him, his fingers pushing stray strands of hair from her forehead. She let her breath relax and her eyes close, his lips pressing into the side of her mouth and then to her cheek. She found her hands fisted in the sheets and strove to release them slowly, stretching her fingers out to press back into him, drawing absent lines on his waist. Her focus swayed to his mouth, carefully tasked at placing kisses into her neck. His lips left her skin and she heard him hum quietly in confusion. Opening her eyes, she was met with a frowning gaze.

"That was…" John trailed off, either not knowing how to finish the sentence or still deciding on what came next. "... Interesting."

"Excellent critique," she murmured, teasing and shutting her eyes once again. She knew what he meant but this was probably something they shouldn't be starting a discourse on.

"Let's not talk about it," he stated firmly, voicing her thoughts exactly.

She nodded with a pressing smile and he ducked his head, nuzzling his mouth into her ear, whispering. "I've got twelve years on you though, Clara," he sighed, clearly annoyed. "What a waste of fucking time all that's been."

She exhaled and trailed her fingers up his arms. "Don't," she chastised lightly, trying to stop her smile.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom to deal with… _things,"_ he grinned back, tapping his forehead lightly into hers. "Then, I'm going to come back and we're going to repeat everything that just happened. Is that a good plan?"

Clara raised her hand up in front of him and he laughed, slapping his open palm into hers. He rolled off the side of the bed, landing gently and pattering softly out of the door.

She twisted and pressed her mouth into the pillow, breathing out hard and trying to relax, focusing on returning her perception to her immediate situation. Pleasure continued to flow through her body, hindering her attempt to calm herself down from the exposure of him. That was _unbelievable_. Stupidly good. She swore into the pillow, annoyed almost. Like… he had been. Sex wasn't like that. Whatever the fuck that had been, it wasn't sex. Her annoyance grew and she gave a quiet and muffled laugh. Annoyed because whatever she'd been doing for the entirety of her adult life hadn't been _that._ If she'd been a little more present, she considered she would have actually upgraded her reaction to something resembling anger. The thought made her laugh again and then she groaned helplessly, muffling her reaction a second time into the soft material.

"I missed you," she told him, lifting her head as his shadow returned.

"Did you? I missed you."

She smiled to herself, not quite sure why she'd said that aloud. His response was just as amusing as her question, amusing because she'd meant it, amusing because it sounded like _he'd_ meant it.

"This is my favourite part," he muttered, moving in search. "Finding the box…"

He shuffled around the floor and Clara heard him sigh with amusement. "Did I throw it?"

"You could use this wild invention called 'light bulb'," she suggested.

He laughed and then yelped in pain, his silhouette leaping backwards and hand pressing into the bed for support as he half fell. "Ow, fuck!"

"Are you… okay?"

"No! Why do you keep fucking nails on your floor?" he exclaimed, indignant and distressed.

Clara frowned, wondering what he might have trodden on. Probably a hairpin. Or a hairbrush. She grinned. "Is now the right time to tell you I'm a sadist?"

His groans of pain transformed into peals of laughter and he sat down to lean forward over his knees with enduring mirth.

"All of that was really turning me on," she continued, smiling. "Keep going."

"Stop," he protested through a gasp. "I... can't—can't breathe properly."

"Mmm… good."

Another burst of laughter and she frowned with confusion. "It wasn't _that_ funny," she contended, starting to laugh herself at his overreaction.

John began to get himself under control, struggling and then taking a deep breath. "You know your bedroom talk all right," he replied, dropping to the floor. A scuffle at the foot of the bed and a murmured string of self-reprimand filtered to her ears before he stood up, pleased with himself. "Great news, Clara. Don't need Edison's help after all."

"Isn't Edison disputed?"

John jumped instantly back onto the mattress, rolling on top of her over the covers. "Stop," he growled, finding her mouth with his, "correcting all my funny jokes."

"This is just workshopping."

"Do you _want_ a rundown on the history of the light bulb then? Because I'll do it," he threatened. "I'll do an entire presentation right now. I'll even draw diagrams and graphs."

"No!" she laughed, pressing her head back into the pillow. "Oh my god. Please, no."

"I'm so funny," he muttered, shifting his weight to sit on the edge of the bed and reopen the box.

"You should do this," he suggested, twisting so she could see him holding up the foil packet. "One, because I just stepped on a industrial grade building nail and I'm feeling pretty sad about it. Two, because… well, honestly… option one has really affected me."

"Physically superior to everyone on this planet," she reminded him, sitting up.

" _Technically,_ I suppose it's only half the planet, but that doesn't quite have the same ring to it."

Clara grinned and knelt behind him, sliding her arms around his shoulders and pressing her lips into the back of his neck. She kissed a slow trail to his ear, marvelling at the ceaseless heat radiating from his skin.

"Why are you always so warm?"

"Your touch makes me burn up," he murmured quietly, turning into her.

When her mouth met his, he pulled her around onto his lap, knees on either side of his waist. His breath quickened when her hand fell on his chest and she experimented by running curious fingers over the curve of his shoulder. He shivered, his reaction making her want to groan. Gaining confidence, she dropped her hand to his waist. Very lightly, she pressed her fingertips into his side. She could feel the sensitivity, the soft skin bursting with a thousand nerves that ignited with her light touch. Fascinated, she trailed her fingers upwards. He trembled, convulsing with the sensation as she caressed his side.

"Clara," he mumbled breathlessly, "you're teasing."

"You're sensitive," she replied slowly, the words leaving her mouth feeling suddenly thick and untried.

"Do this," he breathed, passing her the condom and then holding her hips so she had no chance of falling.

She took him in her hand and he moaned through his teeth, head tilting back to expose his throat. The sound made sheets of desire wash into her, the knifelike edge returning again. She put the top of her head into his shoulder, looking down in the dark so she could concentrate on the task.

The breath in her ear was hot, uneven already, but when he pulled her forwards and onto him, they moved together slowly instead, exploring each other with greater care this time, learning the more subtle details about each other. The world shrank again to her bedroom alone and the weight on her chest continued to lift, the deep and sinking ingrain of _numb_ retreating and replaced by something… temporary and impermanent, perhaps, but certainly an amelioration of her current condition.

Later, while she was laughing into his mouth, she tested the word against the feeling, the perfect, careful and tentative match.

 _Happy._

Just for now. Just while he was making her laugh about something she would probably forget in a few moments when he turned his attention back to her body and into his boundless, inexhaustible warmth. At some point her eyes met the clock on the bedside table but the numbers blurred and didn't mean anything. Sleep was an uninteresting alternative. However, against whatever he may have been adamant to continue insisting, she wasn't physically superior to everyone on the planet and eventually she drifted, her sated body failing in consciousness. He was murmuring something in her ear but she couldn't hear him, not awake enough to comprehend whatever he wanted to tell her with words that sounded like distant, deep poetry. Her thoughts began to break and the last were of his mouth and encircling arms before sleep claimed her, insisting on her deference for a small moment in time.


	14. Traitor's Gate

**Chapter 14: Traitor's Gate**

* * *

The alarm she threatened everyday to throw out the window, open or not, woke her up. The inanimate object never seemed to care and it had always pointlessly irritated her.

 _7:05._

The added five minutes were just to try and trick herself that she didn't have to get up at 7am. As of yet, her brain had never been convinced. She set blurry eyes over the bed, already knowing she was alone. It was expected now, waking up by herself. She had been surprised in the earlier weeks by how quickly the habit of always having someone there had been forgotten.

 _John._

For reasons she wasn't quite able to make clear to herself, she knew he was still in her house. Hot water did its best to give her some lasting energy and wipe out the dull thud of her head protesting it desperately wanted to lie back down. She dressed quickly, counting how many hours she might have slept for.

 _Two?_

The lights were on in the kitchen and she paused her descent of the stairs, smiling slowly as she scanned her eyes over the clothes he'd taken off her, now folded neatly on the bottom stair.

His curls were slightly wet from the shower, darkening the silver mess. He'd been through them with a towel and they stood in a medusa-like fashion upon his obviously exhausted features. She wondered if he'd even been to sleep, still awake in the short hours before the alarm.

"I've made you breakfast," he explained as she joined him at the kitchen bench.

Smirking, she took the plate and cup of tea he offered. "Did you have to Google how to use the toaster?"

John narrowed his eyes and stared at her. "Funny," he replied, not impressed.

"Most of my quality material comes before eight o'clock."

He frowned at her. "There's still nothing in your refrigerator, by the way. I'm amazed I've made it this far."

"I have been a bit neglectful lately," she admitted, taking a sip of tea.

"I don't know if you've ever heard of supermarkets, Clara, but that's where the food is. Maybe I could take you there sometime. Show you round."

"Snappy this morning," she said under her breath with a smile, just loud enough for him to hear.

He hummed and she caught a glimpse of the hinting amusement touching his lips before he turned away to retrieve his tea.

"How do you get to work?" he asked, frowning again. "Do you have a car?"

Clara shook her head. "Motorbike." She watched his eyebrows raise in surprise and then the flash of dismay that he quickly tried to hide. "It's around the side of the house."

"Fun," he said slowly.

"Calm down," she muttered, trying her best to compress the grin pushing at the corners of her mouth.

"No, I'm not trying to be—"

She laughed at his guilty expression until he realised she wasn't serious in her irritation. "I don't really use it much in winter. Too cold. Northern Line's only a fifteen minute walk away." She bit into toast. "Couldn't use it if I wanted to anyway. Clutch needs fixing."

The look of relief on his face should have annoyed her, but instead she felt warm slivers of _something else_ in return.

"Can I get you a cab instead?"

"No."

"It's still dark outside."

"Yeah," Clara smiled, holding his gaze. "That does seem to happen when this hemisphere tilts away from that burning orb in the sky. "

He stared at her, unimpressed again and chewing slowly on his piece of toast.

"Thought you didn't like breakfast," she pointed out.

"I'm tolerating it for stamina's sake." He directed his finger at her plate. "Eat your toast."

"Yessir," she murmured, giving him an absent salute.

They ate in silence, standing at the kitchen bench together. She wanted to lean into him. Just put her shoulder into his while they were close again. But mornings were always different. She wasn't sure he would be okay with that. Her mind ran over the events from yesterday. Possibly, she considered, a high contender for the most mercurial and tempestuous evening of her life. Certainly her most interesting birthday.

"Clara," John started quietly. "I think it would be wise to try and avoid the general public today. I'm going to get a cab home, so we'll drop you off on the way. Please."

Taking advice from someone who knew exactly what they were talking about didn't seem unreasonable. She hesitated but then nodded, agreeing. No point being stubborn about a sensible suggestion. The idea of being on the tube with a bunch of strangers reading the paper beside her also didn't sound very appealing. At all.

Clara went back upstairs and finished getting ready to go, leaving him to arrange transportation and talk to Margaret Thatcher who had arisen from her basket and began mewling for his attentions.

A horn eventually sounded from the road and she made her way to the front door, John pausing in the living room to tie his laces. She stepped outside, wondering if taking a scarf would be an intelligent idea as the cold air hit her skin. A flash of light followed by a stream of continuous harsh bursts cut into the dark morning.

 _What the f—_

A swarm of reporters and photographers were congregated at bottom of the stairs on the footpath, cameras and microphones already raised in waiting. Clara retreated inside instantly, slamming the door closed in shock.

"Fuck," she breathed, putting her forehead against the wood.

John appeared behind her, sliding into his coat. "All right?"

"Ah, yeah. Just…" She sighed, putting a hand over her eyes and running her thumb across her brow. "Our fan club's outside."

His concerned expression transformed immediately, anger and then despair flashing across his face. He closed his eyes and then looked at her helplessly. "Climb over the fence?" he suggested weakly.

She shook her head.

 _I want to walk out the front door like everyone else has this morning._

"No. I'm not disrupting my life for them."

He nodded, understanding but not exactly pleased with the circumstances. "Okay."

Clara made to turn back to the door but he grabbed her wrist before she could expose them to the awaiting flock.

"Wait, wait. Clara." His eyes turned soft as he breathed in. "I just want to…" He swooped down and pressed his lips into hers, soft at first and then harder as she responded. She felt her back press into the door, his body flush against hers, hands curling under her coat.

"Stay," he breathed into her mouth between kisses. "Stay and come upstairs."

"Who will keep our majesty's message broadcasting on the wireless?" she mumbled, slipping fingers past his open coat and into his jumper.

"What _is_ our majesty's message?" He trailed his mouth along her jaw and she fought to keep her mind present.

"Don't get involved with handsome, married celebrities who bring the entirety of the nation's press to your doorstep."

John pulled back, not amused. "I'll just focus on the handsome part of that statement because the rest is horrifically and depressingly true."

Clara smiled. "My sense of humour has turned really dark lately."

He hummed with disapproval and dipped his head back to her. His hands slid across her waist, mouth drifting down her neck and leaving her skin burning. Desire flashed through her, hot and urgent.

"I'm going to be late," she mumbled, protesting without insistence. "Cab meter's running."

"I'll just buy the cab."

"You can't buy... _time_ though." The back of her head pushed against the door, body arching into him as he kissed her neck.

"Be late," he pleaded softly. "Just a little bit late."

She sighed regretfully and put her hands into his chest, pushing him back enough so that he knew to stop. He was smirking slightly as he drew away. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You're a bad influence."

"You should have woken up earlier."

"You should have been there _to_ wake me up earlier."

His lips parted and concern spread in his dark eyes, a flash of something deeper she wasn't supposed to have access to yet.

"I'm only kidding," she said softly, trailing her fingers up his arm in assurance.

He nodded quickly and then touched his forehead gently against her own. "Are you okay?" he whispered, hands brushing along her shoulders.

The amount of importance he saturated the question in made her swallow and blink, taken aback by how sincere he sounded. She nodded against him and then changed the topic. "Sure you don't want to wait here?"

He frowned, confused.

"Just until the sun comes up and you're not afraid to go outside," she finished, smiling.

His eyes flashed. "I'm going to make you pay for that later," he threatened.

"Looking forward to it." Clara twisted to get the door but he put his palm hard against the centre, stopping her from opening it.

"I seriously do need to go, John."

"Well, I can't go outside in my current state." He smiled pleasantly but narrowed his eyes. "Bit embarrassing. All those cameras."

She gave him a sly grin, too amused to take her hands from his arms.

"Can you stand a little further away, please? You're not helping."

She laughed and leant back into the wall, enjoying his predicament. John put his head against the door, closed his eyes and breathed for a moment. "Best thing to do is to not make eye contact. Head down… Ignore. Don't engage."

"Well I wasn't exactly planning on stopping for a chat."

He sighed. "You should also know that if anyone touches you, you'll be visiting me at the Tower this evening. Just so you're aware."

"I'll clear my schedule."

"Good."

His grim expression faltered and a smile began to grow on his lips. "As a funny joke…" he started slowly, narrowing his eyes, "... how do you feel about me taking the chainsaw outside? I'll just carry it. It wouldn't be… turned on."

She exhaled with immediate laughter, casting her gaze at the sinister machine still resting on the table behind them. "Okay," she grinned. "I can take it to work. Try not to smile though. You'll look like a psychopath. Straight face."

"Yessir." John picked it up, weighing it in his hand and laughed in delight. "All the photos…"

He gave her a final grin, wide and dangerous. "Right. You go first. I've got your back."

The flashes from the cameras lit up the early morning and a chorus of a different type of _bird_ song greeted their exit. Chainsaw happily— _ominously—_ swinging from one hand, John put the other on her back, protective, directing her quickly into the patiently awaiting cab. He opened the door for her and she entered to a loud stream of questions. She blurred them out, picking nothing individual. She already knew what they were asking.

Clara tried to guess what all these people would do now. Another scheduled event in another location, perhaps. They must spend an awful amount of time just waiting.

* * *

It was overtly clear as she got to the studio that everybody knew. She wondered what her colleagues were thinking. She liked to think of herself as a good boss, hopefully with enough earned respect to be judged on character rather than her new reputation as, well… whatever choice descriptions _that-bitch-Sharon_ had decided were appropriate for her this Wednesday morning. She had never been directly approached about Danny's death but she was under no illusion that everybody knew the circumstances of what had happened on the road. Without a doubt her repressive insistence was the reason that stopped them from pursuing it further. Their earlier condolences had been met with a blank _thank you, have we got the notes back from marketing yet? Yes? Okay, let's go through them._

The first of the effects of bad-press began having their real world consequences—an awaiting message from her superiors wanting an unscheduled meeting immediately after the morning broadcasts. She growled some pointless curse words into her empty office and tried to at least put it out of her mind for a few hours.

The morning passed without a hitch, busy, and as the day slid into the afternoon, she and Rory handed the desk over to the next team. She returned to her office, running through any ideas she had on how she going to explain this mess of a situation to other people. Really, her personal life shouldn't affect her professional life. Unfortunately, that was an unrealistic, idealistic notion.

 _I was arrested outside the fucking office, remember?_

Yes, she did remember. Very clearly. She was surprised at her sudden concern about the jeopardy of her job. She'd been indifferent the last six weeks about the idea, but right now, while she was still reeling in the wake of having some sort of rush of emotions restarted, if temporary—she found she did care.

There was a wide, flat package on her desk awaiting her return. No note was attached, just a receipt from the courier an assistant had signed for her. With confusion, she slowly tore off the brown paper and then her mouth fell open in disbelief.

A watercolor painting of the Tower of London. It was _stunning._ Dark and foreboding, framed in black and incredibly detailed, individual stone and brick etched over with ink, fine lines that carved through the muted yet dramatic colours.

Clara gawked at it. The White Tower protruded from the centre, the striking fortification dominating over the high walls. The imposing height of stone stood alone, ruling everything that attempted to rise below it. The Thames flowed beneath in its unchanging and unrelenting flow of murky water. Tower Bridge was missing and the bank of the river was devoid of its modern build. A small boat entered through the only gate— _Traitor's Gate_ —and two small and indistinct figures stood upon the decking. The light was representative of early evening, perhaps. A reflection cast over the water and hinted in what was revealed of the sky.

She knew somehow—before she had even looked to the small signature on the bottom right—that it was his.

 _J.S._

Her pulse raced, confusion circling her scattering thoughts.

 _When did he do this?_

She had told him about her birthday only two days beforehand. One of those days he'd been driving down the country. And not only that, _this_ work should have been hanging somewhere in the Tate Modern. A knock on the door interrupted her astonishment and she put the painting quickly behind her desk before Rory entered.

"Don't sit down." Her friend dropped the pile of documents he was carrying and then put her arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a hug.

"I'm okay, Rory," she assured, returning his warm embrace. "Seriously. All things considered."

"Good to hear," he replied. "This hug can be for me then. I'm not okay."

When he let her go, his eyes were searching and concerned. "You need to call Amy," he murmured. "Not today. Tomorrow. After the show, maybe. Give her another day to calm down. I need to talk to her first."

Clara nodded.

"She's a mess." Rory laughed weakly. "Worse than you."

He rested his chin on the top of her head. She needed to grow so people could stop doing that. There was a limit to how many inches of heel she could handle without feeling like she was going to injure herself.

The newspaper waited almost ominously on her desk—her request fulfilled by an intern at some point in the morning.

"Have you read it?" she asked her friend, pulling away from him so she could open it.

Rory nodded. "Yeah. It's really bad. I wouldn't recommend."

… _28 year old Radio 2 producer Clara Oswald_ —

"Got my age wrong, Sharon," she murmured. "I'm twenty nine now."

 _—pictured_ _in the sordid revenge affair just weeks after the death of unfaithful boyfriend_ —

"Fuck that reads badly," she exclaimed, dropping the paper in disgust and then sighing, helpless.

"Don't read it,' Rory suggested sensibly.

"Fucksake. Now we're both having a revenge affair. Who told her?"

"I don't know," he replied. "Amy doesn't either. But, Clara, I mean, it wasn't a secret. Anyone could have told her about the accident."

"But Danny's affair?" she questioned in confusion. "Who knew about that? Just us, as far as I'm aware, right?"

"Well, there's the other side," he suggested quietly. "The woman he was sleeping with. She might have confided in someone. Or someone had seen them together? Could have been anything."

Clara nodded slowly, not actually that interested in knowing anymore.

"She's been named in there."

"What?" She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Yeah…" Rory exhaled, weary. "Not actually by name of course, but as another teacher. Married, too. Maybe not after this. Sharon didn't hold back." He tapped the paper. "Ianto's already told me she didn't show up for work this morning."

"Jesus. What a fucking mess," Clara breathed.

Rory nodded slowly, eyes on the article.

"Danny's parents will have to see this," she sighed, tracing her fingers over the page. Pictures of her and John. Of River and John. Of _Danny._ "And his sisters. They didn't know. All the kids at school? The ripple effect is rather fascinating, don't you think? It's sort of… pernicious."

Rory nodded slowly. "Ianto's been asked to finish the week early."

"What?"

"There's media everywhere trying to talk to him and the other woman. Not exactly great publicity for the school having three teachers caught up in this week's national scandal. But he's all right about that, Clara. Don't worry. It's only a day and half before he was on leave anyway."

She put her fingers into her eyes, watching pinpoints of light birth at the touch. She blinked them away and sighed, wondering if she would feel better about negatively affecting her friends' lives by throwing something heavy across the room or alternatively, getting a wench and finding Sharon's vehicle.

"I'm really angry, Clara," Rory admitted, watching her carefully. "I'm really angry and really sad. I'm worried this is going to break the five of us. Ianto is furious at Amy. Not just angry. Disaster level angry. On top of his meltdown at Jack the other day for yelling at you in here."

Rory shut his eyes for a moment. "The four of us had a fight in the weekend about it after I told Amy last Friday. You probably would have picked up on that… Before Jack apologised to you. Wasn't constructive." He sighed. "Amy wasn't even trying to be rational. Ianto's really not dealing with this well. We've sort of pushed his reaction aside between us, I think. I'm pretty sure he's blaming himself for what Danny did to you. Not noticing anything at work… I mean, he was his best friend. Dan betrayed him too.

"He, um... doesn't care about any of this." Rory pointed at the paper. "He thinks you should do whatever you want without interference from us."

"What do you think?"

Rory swallowed, eyebrows coming together. "I think Jack and Amy have probably jumped to conclusions without having enough information. But I also don't want this to affect you here."

"Already has," she sighed, pointing to the ceiling. "I have a meeting with Michelle in twenty minutes."

"Shit."

"I don't know how formal it is. Could just be a chat."

"Tell Jack," he advised. "He should be used as leverage on this."

She shook her head. "I don't have the energy for subtle blackmail. With my track record, it would probably just make it worse, too." She sighed. "Michelle's been… lenient on me, too. I wouldn't feel good about doing that to her, either. But, fuck," she breathed. "Couldn't be a worse moment for the timing. I think that might wipe out any chance of any immediate reprimand, don't you think? The Wedding is in three days. I can't be dropped out of it without causing logistical problems, no matter how much of a… _volatile risk_ I might be."

"What about the interview tomorrow?"

"Same problem, I would imagine. If it were me, I wouldn't cancel anything. We can probably talk her round on John's involvement if she's really worried. In fact, I'm amazed she didn't mention anything last week." Contemplating, she ran fingers through her hair. "If I'm not fired after lunch, you should come up and do a bit of negotiating. Second party."

Rory nodded, agreeing. "Are we… overreacting though? Surely Michelle wouldn't have grounds for termination based on this?"

Clara shrugged. "Not sure. Maybe. But this includes two weeks of bad press, getting arrested, and no doubt my former actions with Sharon. Individually, no. But stringing it all together…"

"Mmm. Goddamn Gay-gate. I always knew that would come back at us. Right. Let's just assume then you've still got a job. Christ. You know, simply business-wise, cancelling the Doctor's interview would be a stupid move. Surely she'd rather have the ratings. This was always a huge exclusive for the station."

"Is Jack…" she started, "... all right about the interview though?"

Rory paused, considering. "I think he's good, actually. I'm seeing him later. But the three of us should meet before eleven tomorrow. I want a game plan about content. Pre-planned and approved topics so we're all on the same page."

"How very not-us," she smiled at his authoritarian tone.

"No," he agreed. "Special circumstances. I'll tell Jack."

Clara turned back to the paper, putting her fingers onto the picture of Danny. She recognised it, an old photo, taken just before a football match, scarf wrapped around his neck, stadium behind him. He was smiling, happy and content. Like always. Like she thought he was.

"God I miss him," she breathed, tracing her thumb down the side of his face. The ink imprinted on her skin.

Rory smiled, looking at the photo. "Me too. Clara… Amy's right," he said quietly, swallowing. "When she said we haven't talked about this together. As a group."

"I know," she whispered, fixing her eyes on the desk. "I just—"

"I'm not asking," he assured, cutting in. "I just hope we can at some point. In the opposite way to what happened yesterday. I don't want us to fight."

She nodded into her chest. "The five of us should go on a holiday," she suggested with a weak smile.

He laughed. "Morocco? I've always wanted to see the elephants."

"Rory," she frowned. "Can you imagine Amy dealing with bartering? We'd never get anywhere."

"Good point. South Portugal. Malta."

"Yeah. A beach. You can get a tan."

"My skin doesn't understand the sun," he grinned. "But it's actually a good idea. Maybe we should do that."

Rory smiled for another moment and then exhaled, a deep, wearied breath. "Clara," he winced, looking back at the newspaper. "Jesus. You should know, if you're not going to read it. In case someone asks you. There's an implied incrimination."

"Of an affair? Yeah, got that."

"No," Rory shook his head. "Well, yeah, that, but no. Sharon's implied that… that it was your fault Dan died. Sort of a 'you should have saved him' tone. It's subtle. Arguable. But how she's worded some of these sentences—" He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. "It's very ambiguous."

"Right." Clara swallowed, gazing at the blurry text. Definitely would not be reading this.

"Probably could… strip Linda of her Lucifer's Representative On Earth title and pass it on now?" Rory suggested tentatively, pulling a face.

She appreciated the effort and exhaled a little bit of amusement. "Good try, Rory," she replied, giving him a wry smile. "Sharon's going to have to try a lot harder than that."

"What if she married your dad, too?" he mused absently, looking out the window.

"Ah, Rory?" Clara grinned, trying to regain his attention. "Are you all right? In what world would that be happening in?"

"She could be your new stepmother."

They stared at each blankly. "What is wrong with you?" Clara laughed, shoving his arm.

"I have no idea. Why did I say that?" Rory frowned in confusion and then shrugged. "Okay. I need to go and do damage control in studio four. Rachel and Mickey are coming in at two for the paper run-through, remember. Rach also has some tech concern about the switchover from the road going into the ceremony she wants to brief us on. I've told Alexis to meet us afterwards so we can sort something." He sighed as she nodded and then he looked a little bewildered. "Damn. I have really got this covered. Everything is under control. I mean, I feel like I'm watching a tornado coming towards me and can't find the key to the storm shelter. But I shall persevere as an optimist until the end."

"You know what, Rory," she smiled. "I actually feel really good today. So that's something."


	15. This Street Right Here

**Chapter 15: This Street Right Here**

* * *

"Gated, love," the cabbie told her, looking over his shoulder. "I'll have to drop you here."

 _Okay, thanks, love._

"Okay, thanks."

The calm evening was punctuated by periodic street lamps on the quiet Kensington road. John had sent her a code and she punched in the numbers, activating the walk-through gate. She traversed slowly down the street, wondering who else could possibly live in these houses. She grinned, automatically hearing Amy's opinion in her head.

 _Clara, this street right here represents everything wrong with this country._

She couldn't disagree, but it was hard to fight past the fact she was about to willingly go into one. She could reason with her more socialist ideologies another day. She had told John she'd be late to his offer of a home dinner, herself and Rory finalising preparations for Saturday, quickly running out of days before the _I-dos_ were destined to be uttered.

Clara rang the doorbell, wanting to be convinced he'd given her the wrong address. This couldn't be where he lived, surely. It was however— the door opening to reveal his smiling face being quite evidential of that fact.

"Hello," John greeted, moving to one side. "Come in."

She didn't move. "You know this is excessive, right?"

"What is?"

"This entire fucking street."

He closed his eyes and put his head against the doorframe, grinning. "Does it make it better knowing it's the smallest house?"

"Not really."

"I give a lot of money to worthy causes."

"Keep going."

"I fund art and music programmes for kids all over London."

"One more."

"I didn't vote for Margaret Thatcher. Do I pass? Can you come inside now?" He gestured again, coercing her to move.

Clara conceded with a begrudging smile and he followed her as she passed across the threshold, through the entranceway and into a living room. She groaned aloud and then couldn't resist the temptation to put a hand over her mouth. "Oh my god."

There were nice places and really nice places, and _Windsor-fucking-Castle,_ and then there was _this._ It was practically breathtaking. A gorgeous, beautifully furnished room expanded in front of her. The decor was incredibly modern but maintained a thread of something quintessentially British. An open fireplace was set into one side, burning happily away and casting its dancing light all over the immediate surroundings. Brick featured in certain sections, breaking the lighter walls and darker frames. The floor was some sort of varnished dark wood that switched to carpet in the living area. A well equipped kitchen occupied the far side.

"How good are your songs?" she breathed, struggling with astonishment. "I need to listen to something. Jesus Christ."

An upright piano was set into one corner, surrounded by sheets of music and scattered pages of writing. The dining table had probably been hand carved by Geppetto himself, fictional or not, and the chairs looked like only persons with a title of nobility could ever be expected to accommodate such an item of grandeur.

John leant against the back of a couch and looked at her, awaiting further comment. Clara pointed at the fire. "Contributing to global warming."

"Walk all the way here, did you?"

"No," she grinned, crushing her bottom lip between her fingers.

"Didn't think so," he smiled, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows. "Anything nice to say to me this evening? Just passing insults?"

"I've got to get them out of my system I think."

He grinned. "Want a tour?"

"I didn't bring my walking shoes."

He started laughing, running a hand helplessly through his hair. "Fucking hell. This relentless wit. Jack needs to give you more air time. Jesus. It's not actually a big house."

"How about you let me and my one bedroom home decide that." She almost missed his returning grin as she spun in a slow circle.

"So… there's… this part." He gestured ambiguously. "For sitting. And… eating?"

"It's almost like this place is wasted on you," she murmured, walking forward and trailing her fingers over the back of the _ten trillion pound_ couch. A very, _very_ amused part of herself was ready to move in with him. Clara grinned and mentally told herself off.

 _Calm down, love._

"We should go on that show where people trade houses," she suggested, unable to remove the grin on her face. "You can have Margaret Thatcher for a week and I'll just… _experience_ this."

He laughed. "I could do that. I like your house."

"Do you walk around here with your eyes closed? You could just… remember what it was like to be part of the middle classes for a bit."

"I skipped the middle class, Clara. Bottom to top overnight." He narrowed his eyes. "And, anyway, you live in North London. Hardly representative of the masses, is it?"

Clara hummed absently, distracted by _everything._ She followed him forward slowly, taking in every detail she could without letting her mouth fall open. There were smaller details that felt strange. Of course he got _post_ and had normal things like a jar of biros, and coasters, and scissors, and a plastic toy shark— _?_ —sitting on the kitchen island.

She frowned in amusement when they passed the dining table. Green post-its were stuck to pieces of open mail with their own personal messages, clearly ready to be handed over to someone else with his further instruction.

 _Don't care  
_ _Fuck off  
_ _Just tell her I hate the environment  
_ _Why are you doing this to me?  
_ _This might be a good idea  
_ _Absolutely not ! I'm busy with never doing this for the rest of my life !_

His handwriting was a messy scrawl, perhaps exactly as she had expected. It made her smile.

"Kitchen." John slid his hand across the bench. "Gets a lot of use. I'm in here everyday. Three times a day."

She played along with feigned agreement and nodded seriously.

"Toaster… microwave…" He tapped the front of the freezer and opened the door. "Here's my collection of ice." He peered inside. "Coming along nicely…"

He swung the door shut with a grin as she laughed. "Let me show you a room I actually use."

They passed beside a staircase that curved out of sight. "I've got three bedrooms," he explained, pausing at the base and pointing upwards. "I mean, I have one bedroom and there's two for guests."

"Yeah, got that, you idiot," she murmured.

"Missy and Chloe stay sometimes."

She smiled slowly at him, melting at his endearingly awkward expression as he seemed to want her approval. "Where to?" she asked softly.

"Oh, um… through here."

The corridor turned left and he opened a door for her. Entering, she was greeted by a large office, gorgeous again. A floor to ceiling window covered most of the back wall, curtains open although the view outside was concealed in the dark. The desk, another item from Geppetto's fantasy collection, faced the glass.

Clara exhaled. "I want to ask you how much this place cost but I'm too scared."

"Don't ask," he suggested, running a lone finger over the strings of the acoustic guitar propped against the couch to one side of the room.

"The park is just there," he explained, pointing through the reflective glass. "Although the view's better from my bedroom."

A small smile touched the corners of her mouth. "Is it," she replied wryly.

"Objectively. Yes. And with the help of the burning sky orb."

An overfilled bookshelf was set into one side of the wall and beside it extended a set of shelves holding a quantity of awards in a various range of metallic and glass forms. The distinctive sculpture of a set of gramophones caught her eye.

"Can I?" she asked, reaching to touch.

"Sure," he shrugged. "I was reading a book a few weeks ago that I didn't agree with and I… threw it and accidently hit this one." He reached for one with a solid piece of glass and separated it from its attaching plate. "I was impressed it didn't shatter." He reconnected the two pieces and put it back. "Anyway, the point is, I don't really attach much sentimental value."

She picked up the Grammy and ran her fingers over the plaque and plated gold. It was heavier than it looked.

"The ones they give you on stage at the awards show are fake," John explained, picking up the twin trophy. "You have to swap them for the engraved one later."

There were more awards, _a lot_ more, an extensive line that bordered on a double layer.

"Eddie and Hamish have the rest," he said, replacing it.

"How many more are there?" she asked, not hiding the incredulous tone to her voice.

"Mmm. Not sure. We have another three of these somewhere." John pointed to the Grammy in her hands. "I think Ed might have them." He frowned. "Oh. One of our producers has one, too. So I guess that could count as another."

"What's the best one?"

He grinned, scanning the shelf and side-stepping to the end closest to the desk. "There's only one good one here." He took a cardboard construction in trophy shape and handed it to her. Clearly made by a child, the bright colours of felt pen graced the front of the creation.

"Chloe made it. When she was six-ish, I think. The words here say, 'being alright at music', apparently. I could never decipher it. Good, right?"

"That is adorable."

He smiled fondly and put it back.

"Didn't you lose one of these?" Clara frowned, turning the Grammy over in her hand and trying to recall the scattered piece of information. "I mean, physically lose it? Is that true? If so—see, I do know something about your band."

"Ah, yeah," he grinned. "That is a true rumour. Not a Grammy though. One of our Brit awards. We won it, and then we lost it about five hours later. Hamish argues it got dropped in the Thames near Canary Wharf. But I don't even remember being near the river that night. So I like to think it was stolen and is now sitting on someone's mantelpiece getting covered in dust. Hamish made us go and look for it in the morning when the tide was out. We were still drunk, clambering around in the mud as the sun came up." He grinned and pulled a face. "I have a photo somewhere… I'll show you." John turned away and went to the desk, crouching to open a drawer and rummage through it. "Eddie and I have never let him keep any awards since. Want a sort of science fact you'll never need again?"

"Yes, please," she smiled.

"That metal"—He pointed at the Grammy—"is a custom zinc alloy. The man who makes them trademarked it as grammium. He's been making them since the seventies. Cool, huh?"

"That is…" she started slowly, looking at the metal in her hands. "... actually a pretty good bit of information. I could use that."

"It's also illegal to sell them, too. Technically, they're still the property of the academy."

"What?"

He grinned and stood up to come towards her. "Don't even own my fucking awards. So, what it really means, is that once you've coerced me into selling all my possessions out of guilt and responsibility, it'll just be me wearing this torn jumper with a Grammy in each hand."

Clara grinned at the image and replaced the prestigious award, giving her attention to the next feature that captured her focus. A framed photograph, she figured had been enlarged from the original development was set on the wall.

Three boys— _the band_ —leant against the railing of a bridge in a framing capturing them from the waist up. A city sprawled in the background beyond the water. Glasgow wouldn't be a bad guess. They might have been asked to pose, but the picture was taken in a moment in between, the three of them laughing unawares, caught off-guard and carefree in the soft sunlight.

"Hamish on the left," he pointed, "Eddie on the right. Look at his stupid haircut. Me… here." He pressed his thumb into the centre.

 _Well, obviously, John._

He was just as beautiful in youth, dark hair swept from his softer features, pale skin cast golden in the sun, same slender fingers splayed across his chest.

"How old were you?"

"Eighteen. Or really close to it. This was taken just before we started getting noticed." He ran his thumb between the two boys on either side of him. "We've been friends since we were thirteen," he said quietly. "My best friends. Three stupid kids. Hamish lives back in Glasgow now. I don't get to see him very often."

"Don't you play together anymore?"

"No, we do. We still do the occasional show. We're just… having a break."

"You look incredibly happy here," she noted, looking at the picture.

He smiled. "Yeah. I was. Back before all the noise."

"That jumper looks really familiar," she commented, peering closer.

"I've been at the height of fashion my entire life. It's just that no one's realised it yet."

"No, I like the jumper," she revealed softly, turning back to inspect the one he was attired in this evening. "Very much."

"Here, look." John passed her the photo in his hand and she laughed as she scanned her eyes over the slightly dog-eared card. The three boys were covered head-to-toe in mud and were very obviously situated in the open river bed of the Thames. John was sitting down, legs spread out in front of him, frowning. Eddie leant against his shoulder, cigarette dangling from his mouth, expression just as unimpressed as his friends was. Hamish on the other hand, was sporting a wide grin and holding up a stick. They were young again, though perhaps a little older than the image on the wall. The mud made it difficult to tell.

"We tried to go on the tube but we weren't allowed. None of the cabbie's would take us either so we had to walk back to our house."

She grinned and handed him back the photo, feeling a rush of fond affection that he was sharing something personal with her.

"Clara? Was your day all right?"

She sighed, crossing her arms and touching her chin to her shoulder. "Not really. My boss is putting me on leave for the rest of the year. Starting on Monday. So… I guess that's over a month."

"Not immediately?"

"No… Your interview is tomorrow and Rory and I are swamped with Wedding stuff..." Clara paused, frowning at him. "By the way, your interview is tomorrow. Did you remember that? As it's my job to remind guests in advance… here is me reminding you."

He nodded, smiling. "Hadn't forgotten."

"Anyway, I'm needed tomorrow and Friday morning especially for the final tech run through before Saturday. More convenient if I finish the week.

"But I didn't get fired," she smiled wryly, "so that's a good start."

"That's not so bad, right? A break?"

She swallowed, biting her lip slightly. "Work is quite a good distraction. Did you read? The paper?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes. I've read everything."

"Okay. Ah... I haven't read any. All week. And last week. Just headlines. You said, ideally you can ignore it but the reality is… you can't. Or something along those lines. This will, well— _is,_ affecting my job now. I can't really hide from it anymore. I have options I can use at work, but I thought you could help me… better.

"If you wanted to," she added quickly. "I just mean maybe I could talk to your lawyer. Or Donna. Whoever you think would be more appropriate. If that's a good idea. _Is_ that a good idea? I don't actually have any clue about what I'm supposed to do—"

He cut her off gently. "Donna's already organised an action plan for you," he admitted carefully. "We talked about it after our arrest. Just procedure for her really so I hope you don't think it's intrusive. You can talk to her whenever you want."

"No, that's amazing," she breathed out in slight relief. "Thank you. Next week? If we don't do anything disastrous before then."

"Sure we can manage it."

Clara turned her gaze finally to the easel facing the window. Stacked on the floor were piles of unused paper, and half finished works of landscape were scattered in a messy circumference. Brushes in jars accumulated to one side of the desk. She took his wrist in hers, sliding her thumb to press into his palm and looking up to his surprised expression. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating to wipe out the drifting grey. The sight made heat prickle through her body but she swallowed it down, focusing.

"John."

"Yes?"

"You are really good at birthday presents."

He smiled gently, perhaps just _slightly_ embarrassed.

"I'm a little bit… well, _a lot_ thrown, to be honest. That was very unexpected. It's beautiful. You're..."

"Thank you."

"No, I'm thanking you. So. Thank you. Very much."

"You're very welcome."

She breathed out, frowning up at him. "I've got a lot of questions about your secret artistic talents."

"How would you know it's secret? I could be mass producing and selling to fans so I can buy another house."

She smiled. "The J.S. is a bit of a giveaway, Doctor."

"Good… point," he replied slowly, gazing over to the easel and then back to her. "Well, you can ask me over dinner."

"What are you making?"

"I got Missy to show me how to make this pasta thing in the weekend so I could make it for you. I've even practiced. Did you know it's possible to burn pasta? I did not."

She smiled helplessly, weak at his constant kindness. "Can I tell you something?"

"If it's an insult I need a warning in advance so I can steel myself over."

"It's not an insult. The opposite." She turned into him slightly, fingers curling at his wrist. "You're… incredibly lovely," she said softly into his arm, nowhere near brave enough to meet his gaze.

He exhaled quietly. "I'm really not," he whispered.

She frowned at his remark but he continued before she could contend the self-detriment. "Are you tired?"

"Well, yeah," she replied with a small smile. "I don't remember you letting me sleep much."

"No. Okay. I just thought… perhaps I would make you dinner, and then... if you wanted, I could show you my favourite documentary. It's about trees."

She blinked up at him.

"It's not boring," he added quickly. "I promise. These trees are definitely not boring."

A smile touched her mouth as she was met again with his shy concern.

"But I can take you home after dinner if you'd rather have an early night. Or you could stay here. I'm not presuming anything, just—"

"Shhh," she cut gently into his rambling. "One thing at a time. Okay?"

"Okay."

She began leading him out of the office. "I can't wait to tell Amy you made me watch a documentary about fucking trees," she grinned. "She's going to love that."

"Are you… Have you spoken to her yet?"

She shook her head and gave him a small smile. "No. But we'll be fine. Always are."

Clara leant against the island bench as John crouched down beside her to sift through the pots on the underside. He selected a frying pan and handed it to her to place aside.

"What would you do," he started, looking up at her from his low position, "if I handed you dinner and it was Twiglets on a plate?"

"Um… is this something you're considering?"

"It's my backup plan if this fails."

"I really _want_ to be enthusiastic about the idea," she grinned, trying not to laugh. "But I'm already struggling with my supportive support."

"I don't think you're really in a position to argue," John muttered, reaching past her legs, one hand wrapped around her calf for balance.

He stood up in front of her slowly— _too slowly_ —putting both palms against the bench on either side of her. His body brushed against hers, a gentle weight pressing forward. His gaze fixed her like prey trapped in a corner, interminable and relentless. An amorous advance. A careful smile pressed at his mouth, humourless but warm. Clara leant backwards, just slightly to create some space, but he moved in perfect time, keeping the same distance between them.

"Why do you keep pressing me into things?"

His eyes narrowed and he exhaled with laughter, ducking his head before looking back at her. "I suppose it's some sort of power move," he confessed with a grin. "I'm very controlling."

She hummed in amused agreement as he slid his hands closer to her back. The vagaries in his behaviour were almost difficult to keep up with. He was completely shy in one moment, and in the next he was… well, _this._

"And," he murmured, close again, "this bench should get some sort of use, don't you think?"

"What about dinner?" she mumbled, completely unconcerned about _dinner;_ not when his mouth was this near her own.

"Later. After."

She could feel herself trembling under his hands, knowing it was impossible for him not to notice the way her treacherous body revealed just how badly she was affected beneath his touch. The thumb on his right circled over her hip and then ran a slow and delicate path along the waistband of her skirt.

"I've got to sort you out first."

"You've got to sort _me_ out?"

"Yes," he whispered into her mouth, trailing fingers with smooth confidence. "You're clearly struggling to keep your hands off me."

His warm, dark eyes very purposely slid from her face to the fingers clenched into the sides of his jumper. Returning his relentless gaze, he lifted his hand and placed his thumb at the edge of her mouth. With careful mastery, he ran slowly across her bottom lip. Thumb wet, he replicated the action across his own, holding her captured eyes with impossible command. She could hear her pulse in her ears.

"I want to fuck you on this bench," he breathed, gripping her hips and pressing his weight forward.

 _That_ again. Except he meant it this time and he'd done it on purpose, not ignorant to her prior reaction. Again she had to remember how to breathe as she processed his words while his tongue ran along her jaw and down to her neck. His attentions turned to kisses, each touch of his lips burning her skin, marking her with pleasure and sending flashes of scalding heat racing through her body. The warmth from the light lost its soft and hazy edge and instead sharpened with expressive detail. She wasn't sure she was going to survive this. Her heart felt like a sledgehammer against her ribs. The fingers clenched harder into his jumper, her breath quickening from his attentions with his lips and his hands and his _everything._

His urgent mouth found hers, tongue sliding to met her own. Between them he unfastened the button on his jeans and then slid his hand up the inside of her thigh, starting to hitch her skirt.

It was almost fascinating how quickly heat could shift and transform into the exact opposite of states. Clara felt her heart drop, hot blood switching to cold like she'd been submerged instantly in freezing water.

"Hello, darling," a voice from the doorway announced.

John sprung away from her immediately, his face falling in definitive shock.

 _Shit—_

Clara turned around as her eyes betrayed her, finding it impossible not to look. Already knowing of course, already aware of what she was going to see, of _who_ she was going to see as her eyes cast into the living room.

Another face she recognised—a beautiful face, an _incredibly_ beautiful face, from all the media, from films and television and the _paper, today's paper._

"What terrible timing," the woman said in an overly casual tone.

"River…" John muttered, voice low, dangerous, and clearly much faster at snapping out of his surprise than she was. "This is my house."

"And I'm still your wife, _darling,"_ River drawled, walking further into the room. "I'm sure I've got some sort of legal precedent to wander in."

"Ah, I should go," Clara said quickly, quietly. The pulse in her ears was now for guilt and… _intrusion._

"No." John's command rang out resoundingly sharp in the space that felt like the walls were closing in. His eyes flickered to her and then back to his wife. "You shouldn't be here. How are you even in here? You don't have a key."

"Hello, Clara," River directed with calm confidence, ignoring him and engaging her with a fixed smile. "I've certainly seen a lot of you lately. Your photos don't do you justice. You're absolutely gorgeous, aren't you? Exactly his type."

"River!" John snapped, clearly agitated now. "Fucksake. Get out. I'll ring you tomorrow."

"And what an _awful_ time you've had in the press today," she continued, slowly shaking her head. "Cruel, aren't they. I'm sure he's given you some heartfelt speech on the media. Always _so_ concerned."

River gave John a look she didn't understand. He bit into his bottom lip, his returning stare just as enigmatic as his wife's was.

"Forgive me," River added slowly, turning back her. "I'm sure you can understand. It's always a little startling walking in on your husband with another woman."

River ran her eyes over her again. She felt incredibly exposed, as if a specimen under a microscope. Her skin prickled with mortification. She wanted to avert her eyes but River held them steadily, transfixing her to the spot. Her flight instincts were screaming at her— _get out get out get out_ —yet she was suddenly paralysed, unable to move or speak.

"She's very young," River remarked to John, raising her eyebrows at him and pausing for a response.

"Leave," he demanded, half snarling and pointing towards the door.

River took no notice of his orders and instead came to stand on the other side of the island bench. "I've brought these over, love. I thought we could sign them together." A heavy manilla folder dropped in front of them. "Or perhaps we could do it between the three of us. Save some time. There's a lot of pages."

John exhaled in wearied frustration. "Fuck," he breathed, putting a hand into his forehead.

River kept her gaze on him, impassive.

"River, get the fuck out of my house, please. I'm not—" He gritted his teeth, speaking through them. "You already know I'm not signing these in the state they're in. I will _ring you tomorrow."_

"They're perfectly rational. You're lucky I'm being so generous. We can get this all over and done with in ten minutes and you'll be free to go back to your… _evening."_

Clara closed her eyes. "I'm going to leave," she said quietly, her paralysis breaking.

"Clara, don't—"

"I'm leaving, John," she said, shaking her head and moving away from the island.

"Oh, first name terms as well," River smirked at him. "This does seem serious."

John followed her out of the room. She could feel him seething with anger and unease. "You were right," she started as she slid into her coat and stepped through the front door.

"About what?" he answered automatically.

"I wouldn't stand a chance against her in a fight."

He didn't smile. "Stay there," he ordered, turning to go back inside. "I'm calling you a cab."

She shook her head. "No, you're not."

He exhaled helplessly, putting a hand through his hair. "It's nine o'clock, Clara," he reasoned, completely emphatic. "I don't want you just wandering around in the fucking dark."

"I can look after myself," she snapped back.

"I know that," he stressed, "but it doesn't mean you should be— _fucksake!"_ He threw his palm hard into the door, growling in frustration.

"Stay there," he demanded, pointing at the ground. "Don't fucking move."

He returned in less than thirty seconds, indicating to her to follow him to the road and stopped beside a black vehicle. He was agitated, tense with frustration.

"This is my car. These are my keys." He opened the driver door and pressed them into her palm. "Drive it home." His look was pleading, almost desperate for her to accept. "Get in."

She stared at him, defiant. On purpose. His expression changed. Impatience flickered in eyes, the figiting stopped and his demeanor became almost calm with compressed fury. "Get in, Clara," he said under his breath, devastatingly assertive.

"Okay, okay," she yielded, taking the keys from his hand and climbing inside. She didn't want to accept. In fact, if she had thought it would be worth it, she would have stood her ground and matched his vehemence. Hers would probably be worse. She could feel just how much worse it would be. Instead, John breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"The accelerator is touchy. Button on the dash is for the gate." His anger began dispersing, the emotion replaced with a regret that seeped into his eyes.

"You don't have to go," he continued, softer.

"Let's not be delusional about what's happening here," she replied, emotionless.

 _Mirrors._

"What? What does that mean?"

Clara shook her head. "Just go inside," she exhaled. "Please." She tried to pull the driver door away from him but he grabbed the edge to keep it open.

"What does that mean?" he asked again, demanding and suddenly cautious.

She looked away, trying to stay calm as the proper, furious rage she could feel in her system circled and grew. Yet it was content to stay dormant and she was glad of its temporary absence.

 _Adjust seat. Re-adjust mirror._

"Was your wife's performance in there not obvious to you?" she said quietly, voice steady. "Because it was really fucking clear to me."

"What are you talking about?"

 _Seatbelt._

"Am I just here so you can sleep with me?"

"Of course not! Why would you think that?"

"Just a 'fuck me on this bench' type of a visit?" she continued. A touch of bitterness unintentionally entered her tone.

"Don't… Don't _do_ that," he stressed, confused. "Don't change what I meant. Why are you being like this? My relationship with River is over. You do understand that, right?"

"Yes." She tapped her fingers over the handbrake. "That's pretty clear."

"Then what's the problem?" He was desperate now, furrowed brows set in unsurety.

Clara sighed, resisting the temptation to rest her head against the steering wheel. "She didn't come here for you, John. She's not just showing up at your house at nine in the evening for you to sign divorce papers. That was a courtesy call. For me. Which… must have been a difficult thing to do. But, admirable. I would go back in there and thank her if I thought she ever wanted to see me again."

 _This is a seriously nice car._

Clara turned to look up at him. "I should have figured this out a little earlier, yeah? Connected the dots. Because it does actually make a whole lot of sense."

The confusion in his eyes began dispersing, his restless movement freezing.

"'All I did'," she recited, "'was not want to be married to her anymore'. You told me that. Remember? Day one. What did you do?" She waited, giving him the chance to answer the question she'd posed to him two weeks ago.

John was silent, impassive suddenly as his gaze met hers with a stoic steadfastness.

"I've got a real fucking problem with infidelity and being lied to about it at the moment," she said finally, accepting he wasn't going to say anything. That was okay. She didn't expect him to. She didn't actually even want him to talk anymore.

 _Clutch. Neutral._

"Why would you ever think I would want to be involved on the other side of adultery?" She laughed slightly, shaking her head in bewilderment. "After telling you about my dead boyfriend and his willful deceit? And not even that. Just as… wanting to be a decent human being."

 _Ignition. Lights._

"River had the revenge affair, didn't she," she sighed, giving him a humourless smile. "Not you."

"Clara—"

"I'll bring your car back tomorrow," she promised and then closed the door on him. Hard.


	16. Sir, Your Grace's Displeasure

**Chapter 16: Sir, Your Grace's Displeasure**

* * *

"Good morning, good morning, _good_ morning! This is Radio 2, on-line, on-digital, on whatever the hell it is you want, that's 88.91 on the old wireless box if you're that way inclined, I'm Jack Harkness, you're listening to our majesty's favourite station, who I'm sure is listening in as per usual— _lovely_ to have you join us, ma'am—and if you, the citizens of this great union want to contact us for whatever reason you see fit, text us on 88291 or email on… Jack at something dot something... I'm sure you can figure it out, it's on the website probably—"

Clara jabbed her finger into the piece of paper stuck onto the monitor, clearly displaying the simple address in thick black marker pen for this exact reason.

Jack threw her a devious grin and continued into the microphone without pause. "It's also after twelve but let's not dwell on the technicalities of conventional time formats. Today I'm in the studio with my favourite producer and part-time criminal, Clara Oswald; _assistant_ producer I'm considering promoting over the former for his more obliging respect for the law, Rory Williams—or that's Rory _Pond_ if you've ever had the pleasure to spend five minutes around his psychotic girlfriend—Amy _,_ I love you really, _darling—_ and as promised, finally and with much anticipation—we're joined by someone we all know by name, face, and iconic voice, British music legend and uncountable award winning—"

"Yeah, all right, Jack," John cut in. "Calm down. We're not setting up a dating profile."

Jack burst into laughter and drummed his hands on the desk in front of him. "Introduce yourself then, _mate."_

"My name's John," he replied, giving Jack a wide grin.

"Like hell it is," Jack growled. "That, ladies and gentlemen, is the deep Glaswegian tones of _the_ _Doctor."_

Thursdays. Clara looked forward to Thursdays. There was a routine, a tradition, some sort of recurring familiarity that made her comfortable and at ease with the day. This morning had been different. Instead of leaving straight for the studio, she'd woken up an hour earlier—or perhaps was already awake—she couldn't tell anymore—and bet the worst of the traffic into the city and through to Kensington. It was still dark when she parked his car in front of the house, physically having to restrain herself from driving the rims into the curb as she pulled up. She threw the keys over the gate in the direction of the front door and walked back down the street, pulling her collar around her neck to counter the cold.

She was still late on arrival to Broadcasting House, choosing to walk to the nearest station instead of finding a cab, hoping the freezing temperature would numb her into a state of calm. It didn't. Instead, when she finally arrived in her office, she was in an even worse state—angry _and_ cold.

She slammed the door and threw off her coat. The Tower of London greeted her beside the desk and she turned the frame against the wall, gritting her teeth as she did so. Rory had already left, their 9:15 meeting with third-party coffee—straight from the hands of a barista who knew what they were doing—had already passed. Instead he'd left a quick note of his intentions and a reminder Jack would be arriving shortly for their _pre-approved-topics-of-safety_ meeting.

The engineers found her first, Alexis and Seth, who usually had some issue she needed to be briefed on and today was no exception, but she sent them away quickly, instructing them to deal with it themselves. By the time Rory and Jack had arrived, she'd managed to compress her anger enough to hide it. She barely heard their conversation, just nodding and agreeing when she needed to, giving answers they wanted to hear.

In this Thursday tradition, the three of them would have an early lunch together, but that had already slipped in the previous weeks, and declining their customary offer didn't come across as unexpected. She spent an hour alone, waving away anyone who interrupted the final minutes before the broadcast.

Instead of being the first one in the studio, she delayed it until the last possible moment. Jack and Rory were already engaged in amiable conversation with _him,_ laughing like he'd said something _funny._ He glanced at her as she came in but turned back and continued with the genial chat. If the boys found it strange they didn't say hello to each other, they didn't mention it. She busied herself at the desk for the few minutes before the broadcast was switched to her.

Oh, she was angry now. The floodgates had been released, opening her veins to repressed and hiding emotion. Her nails dug into her palms and she unfurled them slowly, flattening her fingers against her trousers.

And now here _they were,_ this anticipated interview, broadcasting live to the nation while he stared across the desk at her without a shred of guilt or remorse.

"Oi! You two!" Jack glowered in Clara and Rory's direction. "Can I get some applause for the man, please? Bit of atmosphere would be appreciated. What the hell do I pay you for? Christ."

Rory clapped his hands together and whooped with a bit of enthusiasm, but Clara turned into the desk, trying not to clench her fists together.

"Oswald!" Jack snapped at her, grinning. "I'm getting a despondent vibe from you already. Sort yourself out."

"Oh, she's just angry at me, Jack," John mentioned casually. "The next three hours are going to be a bit hostile."

"Angry?" Jack questioned, raising his eyebrows. "Why? You've only been here five minutes."

Clara leant to twist the third microphone in her direction. "Our guest here lives up to his belligerent reputation."

"Wait—hang on," Jack frowned. His eyes turned on her immediately, suddenly cautious. "Hang on. Bit of a turn around, Oswald. What happened to 'he's really nice'?"

John smirked. "Did she say that about me?"

"She did actually."

"I'm in the room," Clara snapped. "Feel free to address me with that in mind."

"Calm down," John taunted. Patronising.

 _"Don't_ tell me to calm down."

"Or what? You'll come over here and smash my face into the desk?"

"I think that's a really good idea," she fired back immediately. "Tell me to calm down again and I will."

"Empty threats," he shrugged.

"Oh, really? I seem to be remembering spending some time in a police station recently for unconstrained violence."

"Proud of that, are you?"

"All right, all right, both of you calm down," Jack ordered. "Like to think I hold myself to a higher standard of broadcasting than Jeremy Kyle's nonsense."

"Not today you're not!" John contended happily, swivelling back and forth in his chair. "This is going be much lower than 'is my fiancé having sex with other women at the funfair?'"

"There's no question needed in that tagline," Clara contended. "But stay tuned for the lie detector results."

"Okay!" Jack cut over them quickly, clearly apprehensive now. "All _right._ Forgotten we're live on the radio? Let's not do this here. Can you please put on a track, Clara? We need to have a little chat."

"No point taking a lie detector test if you're not going to believe the results," John continued. "Let's just jump to accusations and conclusions instead."

"Shut the hell up," she growled at him.

"Clara!" Jack exclaimed in horror. "Right, put a song on. I want to talk to you."

"My interview, Clara. I'll say what I like."

"Rory," Jack demanded, leaning across the desk. "Song."

Clara pushed Rory's reaching arm away from her controls. "I'm not allowed to put on a song," Rory stated, withdrawing, palms held up in the air.

"I'm going to play a song!" Clara exclaimed, fending them off. "Calm down." She turned back to the smirking face opposite her across the desk. "I've been through your extensive discography, John. I've got one here called Dishonourable Throne. Fitting, don't you think?"

"Right, I'll put on the goddamn song!" Jack shouted. "I'm leaving _my_ desk to do your job for you."

John continued his humoured laughter as Jack jumped from his chair. "Absolutely perfect. You'll like the lyrics."

Jack pounced at the controls. Clara put her palm into his chest to obstruct his reach and hold him back.

"Clara!" he yelled. "Turn our mics off!"

"You're a complete bastard," she managed to say to him before Jack broke past her and hit the desk, forcing her out of the way and accessing the controls to play the track. She faded down the microphones before he could do it himself and switched the output to come through the studio speakers.

"What the fuck!" Jack cried, pulling her chair around so she was facing him. "Seriously! What the fuck is going on here?!"

"Everything's just fine, Jack."

"No it fucking isn't!" he exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at her chest. "What's happened?"

"Clara, Michelle wants to speak with you." Rory held out the desk phone insistently.

The higher powers. Clara shook her head, waving away Rory's extended hand. "Tell her it's fine. We're all perfectly calm."

Rory scowled, realising she wasn't going to take the call and put the phone back to his ear, turning away to deal with the immediate problem.

"Your producer and I are going to have an argument," John explained to Jack but fixing his eyes on her. "And we're going to have it on the air, where everyone can hear. This is going to be some fucking great radio." He smiled, eyes flashing and leant back in his chair. "Tone the language down though, Clara. Queen's listening."

"Shut the fuck up."

"No, okay. Listen to me," Jack demanded again, reaching for her shoulder to gain her attention. "I'm not standing for this. What's going on?"

She pushed his hand away immediately. "Don't touch me."

"Clara," he snapped.

"Nothing's going on."

"No," he growled, shaking his head. "Not good enough. I have a right to know if it's going to affect this broadcast. Which, if you haven't fucking noticed—it already is."

"Don't worry about it, Jack," John said, calm. "We're fine."

"What did you do?" he growled, pointing at him and baring his teeth.

John didn't reply. His eyes didn't leave hers.

"Clara," Jack repeated again, insistant for an answer from one of them.

She didn't reply either, not taking her gaze away from John until he looked away to give his attention to the tea someone had made him. The studio fell silent, Jack realising he wasn't going to get an answer.

"Michelle," Rory started slowly, directing his cautious speech at her, "is _very_ concerned. We assured her this interview wasn't going to be a problem, and as far as I was aware yesterday _and_ this morning—it wasn't. Can I advise, please, for your sake, not to create any further complications? She'll be coming in here if it continues."

"It's not going to continue," Clara said abruptly. "Everything is fine."

"Fucking hell," Jack breathed out bitterly, casting his gaze between the two of them. He gritted his teeth and then walked back to his chair. "This is just fucking great. Thanks for the heads up, Clara."

The four of them sat in silence while the song continued. Jack stared at her with unconcealed annoyance. She ignored him, focusing instead on her monitor.

"Song's finished, Jack," she informed him when he didn't start speaking as the microphones faded up.

"Hello. Welcome back." His tone was cynical, laden with restrained aggravation. "I'm Jack Harkness, this is Radio 2. If you've just joined us, then you might want to reconsider that as a decision. Quick recap—my producer and my guest just decided having a domestic for you all to hear was something of a good idea."

"Oh, come off it, Jack," Clara cut in. "We're like this every week. No one's under any illusion this isn't an omni-shambles bordering on resembling the Tay Bridge Disaster."

"That is a massive over exaggeration," John cut in, frowning. "You can't compare an actual trainwreck to a radio show. No one's actually died here, you realise."

"Not yet they haven't," she replied sweetly, fixing him directly in her sights.

He smiled back. "I like bridges. And that bridge did not do its job."

"Perhaps it is an appropriate metaphor in that case."

"May I recite William McGonagall's poem about that disaster?"

"Isn't he usually attributed with being the worst poet in history?" Rory entered, brows coming together. "Scottish?"

"Yes," John grinned. "His work is absolutely abysmal. Listen to this—

" _Beautiful railway bridge of the silv'ry Tay  
_ _Alas! I am very sorry to say  
_ _That ninety lives have been taken away  
_ _On the last sabbath day of 1879  
_ _Which will be remember'd for a very long time."_

John laughed and banged the desk with his palm. "Can't remember the rest, ironically. It is shit though."

"Hey!" Jack exclaimed quickly. "Doctor! We don't condone that sort of language on her majesty's station! Cut that out right now."

Clara smiled wryly, pleased at Jack's decision to at least not yell directly into the microphone.

"Apologies for that, everyone," Jack continued, gesturing his hand at John to repeat the remorse.

"My _deepest_ apologies," John drawled, not a shred of sincerity in his tone.

Clara smirked. "Would you agree McGonagall has been a big inspiration for your own writing, John?"

John gawked at her for a second as he processed the insult.

"Clara!" Jack reprimanded loudly. "Jesus. That's a bit uncalled for. Hell. I'm very quickly realising why I've never let you have so much time on the mic."

"New direction for our little weekly moment of chaos."

Jack groaned. "Yeah? Well I also don't remember having the directors literally breathing down our necks on the phone either."

"I'm not surprised you all need a babysitter," John commented. "The state of this…"

"All right!" Jack exclaimed, affronted by his slight. "You can calm down as well."

"Can we stop telling everyone to be calm!" Rory exclaimed, the unexpected outburst silencing them all for a moment. "It obviously doesn't help."

"Look," Jack reasoned. "Let's just have a nice, civil conversation, please. Whatever is going on between you two can be dealt with in a little place called _not broadcasting live to the nation."_

"Yeah, fine here," John shrugged, speaking over the rim of his cup.

"Clara?"

"Yes, just get on with it," she sighed irritably.

"Good," Jack affirmed, pointing at her. "Can you get rid of your mic, please?"

"I'm not using it," she insisted.

"Just turn it off."

She ignored him but turned away to the desk so he would continue.

"Well, Doctor," Jack breathed out, turning towards him and raising his eyebrows. "Let's—"

"I don't really want to talk about music, Jack," he drawled, interrupting and returning his cup to the desk with a purposely resounding thud. "Just incase you were considering asking questions in that direction."

"Neither do I," Clara stated.

"I don't want your input in this conversation, Clara," Jack warned, glaring at her. "I told you to turn off your mic."

"I'm _your_ boss," she threatened. "Just get on with your job."

"Has anyone told you you're a bit of a control-freak?" John remarked with a smug smile.

Jack groaned, pushing back in his chair.

"Has anyone told you you're a fu—"

"Clara!" Jack cried out, loud enough to drown out the abuse she was already trailing away from with what was left of her professionalism. _"Christ._ Okay, okay. This is ridiculous. I'm not spending my afternoon being mediator for whatever's going on here."

"I'm not—"

"Shut up, Clara," he snapped. "This is _my_ show and you're acting like a child. It's not the place or time to be having an argument like this."

"Hear that, Clara? Stop interrupting my interview."

"Frankly, Doctor," Jack expressed forcefully, twisting in his chair. "You can shut the hell up too. You're just as bad. And _this…_ this isn't actually what I want. You gave me no warning, and I'm disappointed, Clara, that you think I'd rather have a chaotic three hours of content than put your well-being first." He pointed a finger towards John. "Because I will stop this right now. He can leave. I'll personally walk him to the front door."

"You know I don't think that."

"Actually, I _don't_ know. Both you _and_ Amy have expressed that to me now."

"We're on the radio, everyone," John cut in. "Show a bit of professionalism, please."

"Shut up," Jack snapped, glaring at him. "I'm not done." He twisted in her direction. "It's selfish, Clara. Putting me in this position. So tell me. Right now, quickly, so we can move on. What's going to happen? Am I stopping this interview now? Am I taking him to the door myself and throwing him outside? Or, are you going to excuse yourself and let Rory take over?"

John interjected. "I should tell you right now I'm not participating in this interview unless Clara is in the room, right there. Otherwise I'll save you a job, Jack, and I'll throw myself out."

Jack groaned. "Oh, well, great. _Great._ Another wonderful ultimatum. Should have realised. _Should-have-realised_ this was the direction we'd be heading in. We'll stick with option one then. Right! Hurry up, Clara. Is he leaving or not? I don't care how he exits the building. Window's probably the fastest option."

"Jack!" Rory exclaimed, giving him a stark glare.

"Oh, be quiet, Rory. Hell. Doctor, you can send your official broadcasting standard complaints to Jack at something dot something."

"We're four floors up," John remarked, impressed.

"Don't concern yourself about that. I'll make sure you land on your snappy, clawing friends below."

"In that case, you'd be doing me a favour. Wouldn't mind taking a few more of them out."

"Okay, no, stop that now," Rory instructed, clearly nervous. "This is dangerous territory."

"All right, here we go," Jack complained, rounding on him as well. "That's your limit, Rory? Bit of sadistic humour? None of the other carry on is worth your attentions?"

"This is a different category of controversy. And I'd prefer to have a job to come back to tomorrow, actually, Jack. Unlike the two of you."

"I wasn't actually joking though," John announced firmly. "Just so we're all clear. And if anyone is listening downstairs and outside, I would personally buy you all first-class tickets for the Tay Bridge train."

"Going to stand for that, Jack?" Clara inquired. "Man-of-the-people, champion-of-all?"

"Sometimes, when I'm angry, Clara," he explained through his teeth, "there are people who can't be classed as people. And, I did just threaten to throw a man out of a window."

She shrugged. "Deserves it. Good then. Something we can agree on."

"That's your answer?" Jack replied, brows raised. "He's leaving?"

She stared hard at John, his steady, dark eyes staring right back at her.

"Clara?" Jack pressed, annoyed and wanting an answer. "This is the radio. _My_ radio. Dead, dead, dead air is not acceptable."

She gave him a wry smile. "Oh, look. Another standard. I've never seen you so professional, Jack."

"Someone has to be! And because it definitely isn't you today, turns out _I'm_ going to have to be the one trying to keep us on the air."

"Excuse me," Rory interjected. "I'm the only person in this room being professional."

"Right you are, Rory," John agreed loudly, leaning back in his chair and dragging the microphone towards him before putting his hands behind his head. "You two are a mess. I've been here, what? Twenty minutes?" He lifted his legs and arranged them on the desk, crossing his ankles. "I've been insulted and had a death threat, _and,_ honestly, the person who made this cup of tea for me did not follow instructions. I'd say—easily the worst interview I've ever done."

"Who made you that tea?" Jack frowned, serious.

John shrugged. "How should I know? I'm not here to become best friends with the staff."

"I might not have many standards, Doctor, _Clara,"_ Jack growled, looking towards the glass window and into the engineering room. "but I am _not_ having that. Whoever made the Doctor this tea—get in here _right_ now."

"Clara can't make tea either," John drawled, clearly exacerbating. "How hard is it to follow instructions around here?"

"Oh my god," Clara breathed. "What a mistake it was being so concerned about your health."

The studio door opened and one of the interns entered tentatively, obviously nervous about the situation he was walking in on.

"Michael," Jack snapped. "Come over here and explain yourself to the Doctor."

"Oh, don't take it out on him," Clara objected, smiling reassuringly at the young man.

"Come here, Michael," John smiled dangerously, patting the desk. "Come here and join in on all the fun we're having."

"I don't really want to," he replied carefully, hesitating.

"Oh, isn't that just _perfect,"_ Jack articulated slowly, grinning with all his teeth and looking at Clara. "Now the other staff are being disobedient. Michael! Get in here now."

Michael did _get-in-here-right-now,_ Jack's suddenly dangerous expression providing sufficient incentive.

"Firstly, apologise to the Doctor for what you've done."

"Don't worry about that, Michael," Clara told him kindly. "It's not your fault he's barely human."

"Quiet!" Jack snapped at her. "Doctor—tea instructions, please." He pointed at Michael. "Listen up."

"Right, here's what you do," John started, fixing the young man with his dark stare.

"Get ready to be sick," Clara warned them and wider Britain.

"First, you put a teabag in the cup. A _good_ teabag. Twinings. Taylors. Not any of that other nonsense."

"Other teas are available," Rory inserted quickly and Clara exhaled laughter at him. Producer to the end.

"Yeah—bad ones," John clarified.

"Move along, move along," Jack growled, tapping the desk.

"Then, you fill a kettle with water and press the switch to boil it."

"Wow, this is the sort of radio we've all been waiting for," Clara drawled, tone littered with sarcasm. "Jack, when we started this show at the beginning of the year, did you ever imagine this was the sort of content we'd be advocating?"

"Frankly, Clara, because of you, this has been the best bit of material we've had today. So for the last time—shut up and let the tea link happen."

"Someone once gave me a decaf in an interview," John continued. "I left. I said it was because the interviewer was asking boring questions, but I was just so disgusted I didn't think being there was worth my time as a citizen of this country."

Jack pulled a face. "Listening, Michael? The fate of this show might now rest in your semi-capable hands."

"Yes, I'm listening."

"Once the water has boiled to completion," John went on, "pick up the kettle. You'll know it's ready because the switch will flick forward, or the light will go off, or something will indicate the water has reached boiling point—which as we are in London and are 220 meters above sea level, it will be 99.2 degrees celsius."

John was speaking now as if hosting a cooking show. Clara desperately wanted to smile in spite of the impending situation. Jack was laughing silently into his hand. Michael, however, still intimidated and nervous, wasn't quite getting the joke.

"Quality obscure science fact here on Radio 2," Jack inserted.

"Everyone knows that," John frowned, his expression slightly confused.

Clara gave him a disgusted look. "No one knows that."

"Well, why don't you read a proper book for once in your life? Don't you think it's about time you put down Pride And Prejudice? Clearly you've not taken in any of the main themes."

"Okay, okay, what's next," Jack interjected, trying to keep the fragile distraction continuing without conflict.

John grinned at him, missing nothing as Clara clenched her fists and scowled.

"Next, pour the water over the teabag. It stays in the cup for one hundred and twenty seconds. Okay?"

"Okay," Michael confirmed.

"How long?"

"One hundred and twenty seconds."

"That's two minutes for all the normal communicating listeners out there," Clara cut in.

John ignored her. "Good lad. Time it. Right, now, here's the bit that people seem to find difficult. Get a teaspoon and—" He paused, sending Michael a grave frown. "Listening?"

"Listening," he nodded quickly.

"Put in a teaspoon of sugar. Then, put in _another_ teaspoon of sugar. And then, young Michael, another, and another. How many is that in total?"

"Four," Michael replied, looking to Clara in helplessness.

"He's not kidding," she shrugged.

"Oh my god." Jack's mouth fell open. "That's disgusting."

"I can handle you threatening to throw me out of a window, Jack. But insulting how I drink tea is crossing a line."

"How are you alive?!"

"Not sure!" he exclaimed, hands behind his head again. "Super-human. Physically superior to everyone on this planet." His smirking eyes drilled into Clara and she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to look away before she succumbed to the temptation of diving across the desk.

"Michael," Jack smiled pleasantly, pointing at the door. "Go and do as the man says."

"No milk?" he asked John as he stepped backwards.

"Did I mention anything about milk in those requirements?"

"Um… No."

"Then I'm sure you can figure out what to do with it."

Michael nodded quickly and began maneuvering back around the desk like a scared rabbit. "Ah, would anyone else like a cup of tea?" he asked hesitantly. "Or… coffee?"

"Let's not start on coffee," Clara smiled at him.

"Nope!" Jack snapped. "Out you go. Focus on the one. Chop chop."

"I've got high hopes about this," John declared.

"What a fantastic link that was," Clara drawled. "This can be the episode I submit to the ARIAS Awards next year, Jack. Forget anything to do with The Wedding. This is radio gold."

"Well, Clara," Jack said sweetly through his teeth. "If it was up to me, none of this would even be getting submitted to the general public right now."

"What's it like discovering I've actually been in charge of you and this show for the last eleven months?"

"Honestly," he said quietly, leaning towards her over the desk, "it's come as quite the shock. How naive of me to assume otherwise. I've been very self-involved, haven't I?"

"Wouldn't have had it any other way," she smiled, putting fingers through the back of her hair. "But as it turns out, having your fingers on the buttons is a real incentive for power."

"Still, _boss,"_ her friend drawled. "The question remains. And no amount of trainwrecks or tea-making is going to cover it, unfortunately. What are we going to do?" Jack sighed, looking between herself and John and then repeating slowly, "What are we going to do? Clara? Are we going to be okay? Because it doesn't sound like it."

"We've all been so looking forward to this interview," she smiled wryly, staring at John.

"I've _especially_ been looking forward to this," John grinned back, teeth bared and dangerous. "Shame to ruin it all now over a little bit of a misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?" she repeated, almost snarling. "I haven't _misunderstood_ anything except for how much of a bastard you are."

"I'm not leaving," John announced, his mouth curling up at her insult. "Not until I've had my tea at least."

"Let him have his tea. I hope you choke on it."

"Clara!" Rory protested. "We need to stop with the death threats. And the swearing."

"It wasn't a threat, Rory," she smiled. "It was a suggestion."

"There we go, Jack," John shrugged. "No one's going through the window. I'll be staying right here instead, asphyxiating."

"You were the only person on the window list," Jack replied, scowling. "And you're still on it." He looked between the three of them and then exhaled. "All right—have we achieved some sort of progress here then? It doesn't really feel like it. But can we move on, please? I've got a planned interview. I even wrote some questions down, which I've never done in my life."

"Well, Jack, another little problem… as I mentioned before, I don't want to talk about music. What's there left to say? I just get the same, repetitive questions over and over again, and I've answered everything about three hundred times already. I am so, _so_ bored of it all. Shall I just cover a few quick points and get them out of the way? Yes? Right, everyone listen up, all of you out there in the big, wide multi-verse. Number one—no, we don't have any plans for a new album. It's been six years, so stop asking. I haven't written any songs. Number two—Hendrix, Dylan, and a pretty large dose of my old pal, Mr Rachmaninoff. Number three—no. Number four—yes. And finally, would you all like something new? I hate the song that we played before. It's terrible. I hate that entire album, actually."

"But that album has Voyager on it," Rory frowned.

"Yeah—it's terrible. I don't know why people like it."

"Going for the sympathy vote now, John?" Clara retorted. "Poor, sad musician. Hates all his critically acclaimed work. Please feel sorry for me."

"No," he snapped at her. "I am not."

"Why did you release songs you hated then?"

"You won two Grammys for that album," Jack stated in confusion.

"Look, there's only one good album, and that's the first," John concluded, aggravated. "The rest are fucking awful."

"Other curse words are avaliable," Clara smirked, automatically scribbling another note of the timecode for the future podcast release.

'Sorry, sorry, sorry," Jack exclaimed quickly. "Apologies for that, everyone. Apologies to her majesty."

"John, say sorry to the Queen," Clara demanded with a pleasant smile, twisting her chair back around.

"I think the monarchy should be abolished."

"Oh, for fu… _sake!"_ Jack trailed away in exasperation.

"Balanced and impartial here on Radio 2!" John drawled in an upbeat imitation of Jack's American accent. "Join us next week for our rundown on liberal socialism here in modern day Britain!"

Clara smirked. "Pretty sure you're not qualified to be involved in that conversation."

"Just because you're waving the red flag over there."

"Oh, absolutely f-ing not!" Jack cried, raising half out of his chair. "This is not turning into a political debate!"

"Amy will be furious if you continue this without her," Rory muttered, reaching across her for the controls. "Jack's peaking, Clara."

"You should see his house, Jack," she remarked, letting Rory deal with the microphones. "Maybe you'd change your mind."

"It's not a big house! It's just a nice, normal house—"

"On a not-normal street with a big gate," she finished.

"All right, I'm never inviting you back again."

She laughed dryly. "Like I would ever accept."

"Attacking me for my economic status is low, Clara," he scowled, a flicker of real annoyance crossing his face. "I've told you what I do with my income."

"Small problem—I'm pretty sure everything you've ever told me has been a lie."

John chuckled, eyes cold and shaking his head incredulously. "God you're cruel. Ironically, my licence fee is literally paying for you to sit here and insult me. That's got to be some sort of deranged self-abuse."

"Doctor," Jack interrupted. "Are you serious in saying you don't like your albums?"

"Why is this surprising everyone? Of course I don't."

"Can we lift the depressing tone of this thing?" Clara exhaled. "I can hear people switching off. No one wants to hear his self-deprecation."

"I think they probably do," Jack said, raising his eyebrows.

Rory—in charge of audience involvement—sniggered, looking at his screen. "People are definitely not switching off. Trust me."

"Can I reiterate, I don't want to talk about music," John remarked, sighing. "I agree with you, Clara. It's too depressing."

"Well, maybe if I could get around to asking some damn questions, we _could_ cheer this up!" Jack exclaimed. "I can't believe I came in here on an assumption I was going to be the first person to ever achieve some sort of successful interview with you."

"It's not your fault," John smirked. "What would help was if your producer didn't overreact and make allegations she knows nothing about."

"Oh my god," Jack groaned, helpless. "Okay. Fine. _Fine."_ He was half out of his chair, fingers pressing hard into the wooden desk. "Let's do this! I don't care. You can both suffer the consequences and when I get dragged down with you—who cares, huh? Not me. You want to spend this time addressing whatever the hell has happened between you and fighting? Fine with me. Let me know if you want my input. I will be sitting right here, updating my CV."

"Excellent," John smiled.

"Jack, this isn't a good idea," Rory urged but with weak conviction. "This is a _really_ not a good idea."

"You know what, Rory, maybe it is," he argued, clapping his hands together. "Let's go out on a high. Who wants to call Sharon Lowles and tell her what a complete and utter deplorable bitch she is and destroy this goddamn _omni-shambles_ once and for all in the traditional Radio 2 manner? That's what I really want to do."

Beside her, Rory groaned into his hand, swearing under his breath.

"I've got Jonathan Ross' number," John suggested. "We can take this thing right back to 2008."

Jack laughed. "How long do you think we've got before upper management get in here and pull the plugs?"

"Few minutes?" Clara shrugged. "I can already hear Sharon calling her lawyers."

"Oh well!" Jack exclaimed. "Long enough for a quick monologue."

The studio door opened and Michael entered cautiously, cup cradled in his hands.

"Michael! A timely return. How'd you get on?"

The cup was slid across the desk and John started taking a sip. Jack continued his commentary. "Moment we've all been waiting for ladies and gentlemen, your majesty… Verdict, Doctor?"

"That is a fucking great tea," he grinned. "Nice job, Michael."

"Language!" Rory expressed, frustrated. "Doctor, you really can't swear."

"Who cares," Clara shrugged as he did the same. "We'll be off-air shortly."

"Least of our problems now, Rory," Jack smiled, crossing his arms.

"I know a young man about your age who could benefit from this level of attention to detail," John continued to Michael. "His name is Louis. Hello, Louis. If you're listening, can you please turn off? Otherwise you won't like me very much afterwards."

"Right, out you go, Michael," Jack instructed. "Don't want to get yourself entangled too much further into this disaster. You're going to have to take over my job once I'm gone."

"I actually want to be an engineer," Michael told him as he reached the door, looking relieved.

"Correct," Jack nodded. "I'm irreplaceable. Thursdays will just be a big, empty silent void of nothing but despair and hopelessness. Which is actually something I'll be looking forward to because it sounds better than what's going on here. However, while I have this little moment, this short space to speak, I'm going to use it for something important."

"Can I—"

"Nope!" Jack exclaimed, cutting Clara off as Michael closed the studio door. "I'm talking. I need to say this while I've still got the chance."

Jack leant forward, taking a breath, expression falling into a weary grimace. "I'm getting married on Saturday. No surprise, I've been banging on about it for nine months. It's supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Not just for me, but for what we've created, here, with all of you who are listening and everyone who has given time and energy for us. Problem is, the last few weeks have been the most difficult of my life. I think here, on our little show, the three of us have done a rather fantastic job between us of covering up just what an absolute mess our personal lives have been. Which is not what I… not what I would have wanted for this. Honesty's always been at the forefront of our operation here.

"Quick hello to friend-of-the-show Sharon Lowles. Hope you've had a lovely morning, darling. Always nice to have your work published for the nation to see, isn't it. A real plethora of quality, integral journalism you've being doing the last couple weeks. Very much exceeded yourself yesterday, too.

"If you're a regular listener, you would have heard our friend Danny contribute on here a few times over the last few months." Jack laughed. "He was Ianto's best man. They'd been friends since their first day of university. We did a few weeks running of workshopping his speech for Saturday."

Jack twisted suddenly in his chair to look at her. "You know, the last episode of that would have been the real submission for the ARIAS awards, Clara," he pointed out, raising his eyebrows.

She nodded slowly, a small smile as she agreed.

"Danny's not going to be able to say those words we all wrote together." Jack took a breath. "He… died. My… friend died. My fiancé's best friend died. Clara here—her boyfriend died. And yesterday, in the papers, his name and photo were used as a device for cruel retaliation and personal revenge. What was written about him is all true. Last month, he was hit—" Jack swallowed, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat quickly. "Hit by a car in front of Clara, and Danny… he, ah…" Jack paused for a moment. "Dead, dead, dead air. Can't have that, can I, Clara? Standards and all."

"I'll do it," Clara offered, jumping in to help. "My boyfriend was sleeping with another woman, I walked in on them. Sure, nothing that hasn't happened to a lot of people. Nothing entirely out of the ordinary. Naturally, I'm pretty angry about it. Struggling a bit though, because he's dead now. Really caused a bit of problem in the whole coming to terms with a bit of betrayal. On the plus side—didn't have to do the breakup part. He sorted that out for me. Him and the fucking car. So that's it, I think. Anything else anyone wants to add? Jack?"

"Nope, that pretty much covers it. So, the thing is," Jack went on, "our guest here this afternoon—say hello—"

"Hello," John said slowly, carefully.

"—Happens to be the reason why our stoic but fragile denial over the last month has completely and utterly collapsed this week. It's divided our little group of friends. Our little broken group. I've known Rory and Clara here for a long time. Much longer than this show has been broadcasting. Rory's partner Amy was involved here during Gay-gate, so you might remember her, too.

"Ianto and I have never fought like this before. It's awful. But none of us know what to do. None of us know what to do with Clara"—Jack looked at her—"and her insistent fucking mute _stoicism._ I thought I knew how to support Ianto, but I'm struggling under the weight of this week's events that just happen to be getting worse and worse every day."

Jack turned to address her directly. "And on Tuesday, Clara, when you brought him to the bar—frankly, I was ready to leave it. All the media attention this has been getting, all the shit that has descended from this mess, I gave in. I gave into _this_ _thing_ , whatever _this_ is between the two of you, to let you just… deal with it by yourself. Because it really feels like I've come to limit on how many times I can offer you help and get a complete non-response. Selfish of me, isn't it? But it's been fucking burning me up, and I don't—"

"Jack—"

"No, shhh," he said over her. "I'm going to let this happen. If some end-all fight live on the fucking radio is something I can offer you, then let's do it. Let's do what we always talked about the beginning, when we started—something real and something honest. On the radio, where somebody has to be saying _something,_ because silence doesn't work.

"So!" Jack clapped his hands together, turning back to address them all. "I don't want this to be sad. I want it to be angry. Because I'm angry. I can't remember ever being this frustrated in my life. I want my questions answered. I want _someone_ to tell me _something_ honest. And most of all, I want you, Clara, my dear, dear, dear friend, to be all right."

He closed one eye and pointed at her. "Actually, sorry, scrap that. I'm demoting you to second place. _Most_ of all, if I'm being completely honest," Jack grinned, turning to John. "I want to punch our guest in the face."

John eyes widened slightly and then he smiled, a knowing look.

"I've never wanted to hit someone as much as I want to hit you, Doctor. If I had seen you last Friday, I would have been taking your place in that holding cell for the weekend."

John laughed, warm but careful.

"And I don't even know if this nominal punch I'm delivering to you is deserved."

"How about, Jack," John offered with a genuine smile, "you decide after I tell Clara a few things. And then, if you think I deserve it, you can go right ahead. Free shot. Hard as you like. On air. Sound all right?"

"That sounds fair."

"Punch him now and save us the time."

"That _doesn't_ sound fair," Jack frowned at her. "I do want to know what's going on. Of course I do. I'm sick of guessing and having to fight my way through baseless assumptions."

"So!" he repeated with a wry smile. "Clara, Doctor—I guess this is all yours. I relinquish this seat to you."

"Thank you, Jack," John smiled and then turned to address her. "All right then, Clara Oswald. My defender, my champion, my protector. Criminal One of two. Who doesn't like my music but at least likes how I _dress_ —" He took a breath and fixed her gaze to his, voice lowering slightly as he continued. "My one time lover and my confidant—Does anyone… Jack, do people know what she _looks_ like?"

"Not exactly hard to find an image this week if they want to know," Jack muttered cynically.

John leant into the desk, bringing the microphone with him, insistent and relentless. "Well, if you've missed our photoshoots, think, then, of the most beautiful person you've _ever_ seen, but forget it because you'd be wrong, it wouldn't be enough to—"

"Okay, no," Clara snapped at him. "This is not how you're getting out of this."

"I'm not trying to get out of anything," he shot back. "I'm here to talk to you."

"I don't want your flattery."

"This isn't flattery," he growled. "This is honesty. Where do you want me to start? With our punching session outside the building?"

"No," she shot back. "How about a little earlier? 1533. Henry marries Anne."

His expression broke into a grin and he laughed with a proper sliver of humour. "1536, Tower Green on execution day is probably more relevant, I would imagine."

"It is. Perfect."

"Sounds like I've switched roles though. I don't get to be the King anymore. I'm on the other side of courtroom. I'm in the stand with a jury picked by the _prosecution._ Queen of England, Marquess of Pembroke, charged with adultery and high treason—mind if I leave out the final charge? I feel that's entirely irrelevant."

"Granted."

John put his hand on his chest and straightened slightly, his grey eyes refusing to leave hers. "Sir, your Grace's displeasure, and my imprisonment are things so strange unto me, as what to write, or what to excuse, I am altogether ignorant."

She recognised the quote, grinning at him as he spoke it, accentuated and overly dramatic. "Final words to the King."

"Final words to her husband."

John swivelled to look at Jack. "The executioner was paid twenty three pounds on the day, Jack. An expert swordsman. Foreign. French, but I suppose your Californian drawl will suffice."

"Still very happy to connect something to your head, Doctor."

"Anne never confessed," Clara smiled at John. "Denied it until the end."

"Yes," he agreed. "But I told you people aren't as honest and virtuous as they might insist. You didn't agree. Still feel the same?"

She shook her head. "No. I agree with you now. I was wrong."

"Good. Because this is my confession. Not for the world, or for anyone involved. Just for you. Live on the radio. Where it can't be taken back, or unheard. Let everyone be witness to the spectacle because I have never said a single honest word in my entire life."

John paused and then smiled. "My parents were Catholic, by the way."

"Not big fans of the whole reformation fiasco then," Clara replied, amused at the slight irony.

"A _hatred_ for Anne," he grinned. "The historical arsonist. King-stealing, infidel bitch. How dare she. So! If we may fast forward an approaching five hundred years, to the present day, or minus fourteen.

"Maybe you could do this part, Clara," he suggested, raising his eyebrows. "Tell a story."

"It would be an honour, your majesty," she smiled, sarcastic. "Okay. It's Thursday. You wake up. A beautiful morning—"

"It _was_ a beautiful morning," he agreed, interrupting. "Unprecedented for November."

"Shhh," she growled. "I'm having a turn. You wake up in your Kensington palace. 'I wonder where my wife is?' you ask as you realise your bed is empty. On the bedside table, there's a little bell. Ding, ding, ding. Your servant arrives—a cup of sugar in one hand, your favourite tabloid in the other."

John started grinning, elbow on the desk, chin resting on his palm, glittering eyes fixed on her.

"You turn to—what's your servant's name?"

"Hmm. Carson? Like on Downton."

"Carson. Wait—you watch Downton?"

"No," he shrugged.

"But you know the name of the servant?"

"Yes."

She laughed, almost rolling her eyes. "Typical. So, _Carson._ 'Where's my wife, Carson?' 'Page one, sir. Sharon Lowles has provided all the relevant details.' There's even some indisputable photographs, just so there's absolutely no confusion. Suddenly, you remember a prior commitment for an interview on a radio show. 'Should I attend?' you think to yourself while dressing, passing by a range of ten thousand pound suits in favour of a jumper you found in a skip one evening. The item makes you feel better about your inordinate wealth."

John put a hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing aloud.

"'I _will_ attend,' you decide, making your way to the roof where the helicopter awaits. You and the rest of the country may have just found out your unfaithful wife has been sleeping with your manager, but so what? 'I can't miss an engagement with Jack Harkness.'"

John was laughing indisputably now, shoulders shaking, hand clamped over mouth.

"Oswald," Jack growled, leaning forward slightly. "This is heading into territory that insults _me."_

"Why did you never get her to audibly contribute more on here, Jack?" John asked through laughter.

"Dry humour isn't appreciated," she grinned, looking at Jack.

"Well, I can do the next bit," Jack offered wryly, shifting forward to his microphone.

"Stage is all yours," John smiled, inclining his head.

"I get to the studio early. _Early._ I've never been early for anything in my life. But, as it happens—big day for me. I'm interviewing someone obscenely famous and famously difficult, and I feel like I should have a few pre-prepared questions set out for the man-who-can't-be-interviewed, who, for some goddamn reason I haven't figured out yet, has agreed to come onto our little show here."

"You don't know?" John asked. "That's easy. Clara hasn't told you obviously. She thought I agreed to the original interview two weeks ago because of her negotiating skills with my manager, but really, Jack, I didn't give a fuck about that, I just really like you."

"That's a bit of petty information," Clara remarked.

"I'm glad you're showing me how much I mean to you, Doctor," Jack smiled, "by ruining my show."

"You're welcome. Anytime."

"I don't think there will be an 'anytime' to return to. But yes, _anyway,_ where were we? Oh, yes, that's right—there's police everywhere. There's media everywhere. Sharon Lowles is in the building. She looks like she's just won the goddamn lottery."

"My turn," Rory cut in. "Jack grabs me by the shoulders. Picture—a stereotypical rabid dog in your face. 'Rory,' he screams. 'You've got ten minutes to organise an entirely new show by _yourself!'"_

"Oh, come on, Rory!" Jack exclaimed, affronted. "That's a massive over-exaggeration. It was twenty minutes. And I was very professional."

"Serving up a whole lot of hard-hearing honesty in our _confessional_ session here on Radio 2," Rory went on without pause. "'Where's Clara, Jack? Where's the Doctor?'"

"You know what this needs?" Jack deflected, drumming his hands on the desk in a quick repetition. "An overly dramatic soundtrack. However, in light of my lack of foresight, we'll continue this gripping story by swinging back to our esteemed guest here. Where _were_ you?"

"Back of a police car," John grinned, putting his hands through his hair. "Both of us arrested for assault. A quick one-two for a man outside. A _not-very-nice_ man. Clara and I spend five hours having a lovely little chat in our own personal holding cell, waiting to be sent to the Tower. Interesting in there, wasn't it? All the fighting and the confiding and the provoking and the _lying._ What was your favourite moment? Mine was the incident at the door." He lowered his voice, seductive, beguiling. "All those silly, _silly_ games."

"I'm angry I didn't concuss myself completely so I didn't have to listen to you talk."

"Clara and I slept together, Jack," he said abruptly. "Better get that out of the way next. I'm sure it's probably obvious. But it might be a _problem_ a bit later on."

"It's a problem right now," she snapped.

Jack exhaled. "Knew it. When?"

"Well, not _in_ the holding cell—can I make that clear. Tuesday."

"I thought—wait, Tuesday? This week's Tuesday?"

John nodded. "Yes."

"What… _after_ the bar? Hang on." Jack adjusted in his chair and leant towards Clara, eyes flashing dangerously. "You only slept together on _Tuesday?_ What about the entirety of last week? What the hell were you doing then?"

"Thinking about it," John smirked, tapping his fingers over the rim of his cup.

"Oh my god," Clara breathed in frustration. "It was _once."_

"Thrice."

" _What?_ No, it wasn't."

"Yes, it was."

"It's not counted as individual…" She trailed off in exasperation, too angry to consider being embarrassed by the level of detail this was heading into.

"Is for me," John shrugged, still smirking.

"It was one night," she snapped for clarity.

"So?" he continued, threading his hands together and raising his arms above his head in a casual stretch. "What did you think? Let's have a moment of review before you tell the nation how regretful you are about it. Was I up to your high standards? How about you give me a rating?"

"Woah!" Jack exclaimed, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm not giving you a rating," she growled, scowling.

"Why not? I want a rating."

"Risky idea, Doctor," Jack interrupted. "You're really setting yourself up there for disaster."

"Am I, Jack? I listen to this show, don't forget. Half of it is homage to your sexual misadventures."

"I wouldn't have chosen misadventures as an appropriate description. But I can answer this question for you if Clara won't, which she won't."

"Is that right?" John drawled, raising his eyebrows with curiosity, swivelling in his chair to give him an appraising look.

"How the hell can you answer that?" Clara exclaimed, turning to also look at Jack.

"I know you better than you think I do. And don't imagine I was blind the other night to your… How do I say this without offending her majesty? Eye-liaisons."

"What's the verdict then?" John asked, crossing his arms.

"Ten out of ten, mate," he replied, smirking. "Nine out of ten if you didn't let her at least go on top once. But I reckon you did. So, full marks."

"Jack!" Clara yelled, kicking out at his chair from under the desk.

"You can't even deny it," her friend shrugged as he avoided the assault.

"Yes I can," she snapped, furious.

"Go on then. In our moment of honesty."

She swallowed, scowling but saying nothing. John began laughing quietly, _smirking_ again. "I didn't need you to tell me that, Jack. Already knew."

 _"Three_ times? That's impressive even by my standards."

"You are unbelievably arrogant," Clara breathed at John, grinding her teeth together.

"What I do best apparently," he snickered. "Well, _second_ best. And if it helps, Clara, it's a mutual review."

The studio door burst open without warning and a familiar face entered, red hair whipping behind her as she put her foot into the door to hurry its closure.

"Your babysitter has arrived, John," Clara announced loudly, immediately glad of the interruption.

"Yes she bloody well has," Donna exclaimed, giving John a fixed look and then turning to Jack. "What the hell sort of unqualified therapy session are you running here, Jack?"

"Well feel free to try and stop it, darling," he drawled, holding up his hands. "Because this is way beyond me. Any integrity this show had left thirty minutes ago. For the listeners—Donna Noble, PR extraordinaire, has just made her way into our unworthy presence."

"How has my babysitter arrived before yours?" John asked, frowning towards the three of them around the desk. "Bad traffic coming down from the top floor?"

"Wouldn't have a clue," Jack shrugged. "Maybe this is good radio after all. Maybe we should have been doing this all along. This is what the public really want. This is what upstairs want."

"I've been getting you air-time, you fools," Donna explained, exasperated. "What sort of PR manager do you think I am? This is simultaneously the best and worst interview John's ever done. As the former is still in consideration, I'm doing everything in my power to keep you broadcasting."

"Well, is that right! Can I get a round of applause?" Jack laughed. "That is some solid work, Donna."

The four of them clapped their hands together and Jack slapped the desk a few times. "Donna Noble! Keeping this disaster rolling right on in for all our licence-payer's listening pleasure."

"Yes, well, I'm not staying. I'm on my upstairs to deal with this mess in person. Just thought I'd pop in and say hello, perhaps say my goodbyes to John before he destroys his reputation completely. We've done quite well so far, don't you think, darling? Thirteen years I've been dealing with your nonsense."

"This was always going to happen, wasn't it? Do I owe you a pay-rise?"

"You will after this."

John grinned at her. "Yes I will."

"However, John," she snapped back. "You need to watch your mouth. Don't assume you're going to fix this by parading around your self-righteous ego."

"You can come and pick him up soon, Donna," Clara smiled. "He'll be on the concrete downstairs."

"Not helping, love," Donna laughed. "But can I just say, you're very right. And he does deserve this. So, carry on. By the way, John, Louis wants you to know that if you're going to mention him on the radio, he'd prefer you pronounce his name correctly. I've censored the swearing."

John laughed and directly addressed him into the microphone. "Louis, your name is pronounced Loo-ey, not Loo-is. I don't know how many more goddamn times we need to have this conversation before you come to sense. I also, still do not care about your mother's opinion. She's wrong too. You're both wrong.

"Oh, Clara!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Is this a good time to use our platform for our mispronunciation public service announcement?"

"Why not," she shrugged, suddenly wanting to smile at his enthusiasm even through her coursing anger.

"Right. Listen carefully, England, greater Britain, North Carolina, greater America… who else?"

"Earth?"

"Earth, listen up. It's come to my attention that Sir Walter Raleigh's name is not pronounced _Ra_ -leigh, but _Raw_ -leigh. Not _Ra_ -leigh. _Raw_ -leigh. Okay? So, can you all please adjust accordingly."

"John," Donna cut in with a weary look. "I'd rather you continue destroying your life than give the nation information like that."

"Thanks for that, Doctor," Jack said blankly, blinking. "So…"

"Is no one interested in that?"

"Probably… not," Jack replied slowly.

John looked a little hurt. "But, Jack, a whole _city_ is named after him and they're pronouncing it wrong!"

"Right."

"Okay, fine! You're all fucking boring, then. I think it's fascinating. Clara told me that."

"Clara…" Jack addressed, looking at her across the desk. "Jesus. You two are perfect for each other, aren't you."

Donna put her hand back into the door, looking over her shoulder. "Anyone looked at the listener feedback yet on your little computers over there? You'll find some more interesting content." She threw Clara and Rory a grin before turning back to exit the studio door. "Quite the uproar."

"Rory?" Jack questioned, raising his eyebrows. "Any public response?"

Rory gave them all a withering look. "Yes, actually. I can't keep up with the influx." He turned back to his screen. "'The Doctor' and 'Radio 2' are trending on Twitter," he informed them. "Want to know what else is?"

Jack nodded. "I certainly do."

"Hashtag Revenge Affair."

"Aw, Clara," John said sweetly, patronising. "We've got our own hashtag."

"Can I get hashtag arrogant bastard trending, please."

"We haven't even _mentioned_ the words 'revenge affair' yet," John frowned, eyebrows drawing together.

"Prescient in nature, the internet."

"Give us a few, Rory," Jack requested, waving his hand.

"All right, well, text from Nicola in Birmingham says, 'Tell Clara she's a—I'll just redact this word—idiot, I wouldn't be complaining if I was sleeping with the Doctor'. She's also left all her contact details… I assume that's for you, Doctor."

"This is definitely more interesting," Jack remarked, raising his brows.

"George on the... M5 says, 'Can Jack hit him now, I always thought he was a—redacted—prick.'"

"Thanks for that, George," John sighed.

"Matt says... 'Hi, Jack, can you leave them alone in the studio but keep the mics on'... Actually sorry, that's probably quite inappropriate, sorry. Shouldn't have read that one…"

"There's an idea," Jack considered darkly and then frowned. "Is this… This is what our listeners have wanted all along? Why have we been wasting time with my wedding? We could have been fighting instead. Clara, you're in charge of this show. Why didn't you tell me this is what they really want? They want blood."

"Blood will have blood," the two of them managed to say at the same time.

"That could not be more of an appropriate quote for this scenario," John grinned at her.

"Oh my god, you're doing _Shakespeare_ now?" Jack exclaimed in disgust. "What the fuck is happening here? Can we get out of the sixteenth century, please?"

Clara smirked at John, ignoring Jack's protesting. "Only, if _only,_ we'd gotten 'get away with murder' in there somewhere. That would have been _perfect."_

He laughed, throwing his head back and then returning with his eyes warm and glittering in the soft light. "Well, didn't we agree to workshop our jokes? I'm sure we can fit them all in, one last time. Any chainsaw material?"

"Well, have we mentioned Sharon Lowles yet this afternoon?" she smiled, pleasant. "Sure I could think of something to combine the two."

"All right, Sharon?" John growled directly into the microphone. "Having a nice day? If I thought going near the window was a smart idea, I'm guessing I could wave to you. Why don't you come up here instead? Come and talk to Clara and me in person. We could make a start on tomorrow's headlines."

"She's coming nowhere near this studio," Jack interrupted. "So you can cut that out right now."

"Oh, go on, Jack," John complained, spinning in his chair. "Let's get her in here."

"I'm not having three people in this room who I'm angry with. That's pushing it. So, no. Sharon, darling, stay where you are. Down in the gutter where you belong."

John tilted his head from side to side, stretching his muscles, breathing out like he standing on a high diving board and was summoning the courage to jump. "Okay, okay. I'll do it myself. Quite right. Like I was always going to.

"There was a headline last Friday," he began. "' _The Doctor Engages In Shameless Revenge Affair.'_ I'm happy to announce, finally, that Sharon has got that completely wrong."

"Can we just pause and take a moment to revel in that fact," Clara interjected.

"She was so, very wrong."

"Completely fucked that up, didn't you," Clara growled, staring at him.

"Sharon, _love,"_ John addressed. "You've made a horrible mistake. Didn't do your research properly." He smoothed his fingers over his chest. "It's been so very cruel of me to let River take the tabloid slack for my misdemeanours. But I was angry. Angry at her for sleeping with my friend. I felt a little betrayed."

Clara laughed automatically at the irony.

"Sir, your Grace's displeasure…" he murmured, adjusting the microphone so he was close and clear. "I didn't have the revenge affair," he confessed slowly, eyes on Clara. "River had the revenge affair. Because I… I have been committing adultery for years."

He didn't go on, just stopped abruptly, continuing to look at her with a slight frown.

"Well, don't leave us in suspense, John," Clara cut harshly into the empty air. "We're on the radio and this is dead, dead, dead air. Shall I give you starting point? This show has been all about marriage for the last nine months. My two best friends are saying their vows on Saturday. Now's the time to intervene if you think they're making a big mistake."

"Okay…" Jack said slowly. "This… this is making me very angry." He swallowed, his face darkening with rage he was quite clearly trying to compress. "When did you find this out, Clara?" he asked carefully, voice low.

"Last night. River told me."

Jack breathed out through his teeth, voice like ice. "You're a fucking bastard, you know that, Doctor?"

John held his ground, putting his tongue over his bottom lip. "Where did you think this was heading? Huh? Clara's been furious at me because I didn't reply to a text message?"

"Yeah, okay." Jack was clenching his right fist, fingers digging in and out of his palm. "Right. I want to stop this now."

"After all that? Don't I get to explain myself?"

"If you don't shut the fuck up, I'm going to hit you."

"Partial and unbalanced here on Radio 2," John snapped, returning the anger.

A mistake. Jack didn't have far to move. Two steps, but he managed it in one. His fist connected to John's jaw. A wide swing, exactly the same as she had done below two weeks before.

 _"Jack!"_ she heard herself scream at her friend.

John tumbled from his seat, the impact hard enough to throw him sideways to the floor. Rory put his foot instantly into her chair and pushed it away hard from the desk. The movement caught her unawares and in the next second, the microphones were off and Britain was plunged into silence. Dead, dead, dead air.


	17. In The Traditional Radio 2 Manner

**Chapter 17: In The Traditional Radio 2 Manner**

* * *

Thankfully, for the sake of her majesty and the rest of their audience, Rory was a professional. Another moment and he had queued a song and the track began, blasting from the speakers for a few seconds before he could switch off the studio output. Silence was restored, a sinking, _sickening,_ emptiness that became punctured by a racing ticking of seconds that were moving much too fast. There was no analogue clock in the room, Clara registered vaguely. This was a studio. Heartbeat, then. In her ears.

"Jack, Jack, Jack," she moaned under her breath at the sight of John's prostrate form.

She made her way around the desk. Blood spilled from his mouth, already smeared across his cheek and now seeping into the light carpet. She knelt to the floor over him, a hand on the side of his face, turning him towards her so she could check—

— _breathingbreathingbreathing_ —but of _course_ he was breathing, she told herself. It was only a punch. He was blinking slowly, shaking his head to clear blurred sight. She watched him screw his eyes up in pain and open and close his mouth against her hand, testing his jaw. He met her desperate gaze, grey eyes glistening from hurt and then lifted his head away. Wincing, he stared down at her trembling palm.

"Blood on your hand," he stated quietly, like noticing a small change in the weather. He pulled himself up onto his forearm and braced himself, pausing.

Her gaze drifted to confirm his comment. Too much blood than what seemed appropriate covered her palm. An unnecessary amount was what it was. Bright red, like roses. Lifesource red. Red _like_ blood was still the only true comparison. She hated this colour now. Not always, but when her body failed and she couldn't stay awake any longer, this is what she was greeted with. He must have bitten into his tongue, or his teeth had cut into his cheek, or both, or worse—

Nausea swept through her in a sickening, heavy wave. She swayed slightly at the sensation, eyes closing as panic gripped her, searing through her veins, spreading until every part of her was covered and alight with a cold compress. Her chest tightened and throat closed, shutting down like it had on the road, _always like the road_ —

John grabbed her red fingers, wrapping his hand around to press his palm into hers. "It's all right, Clara," he murmured, pulling her closer, her forehead pressing into his for stability before he locked his eyes back on her. "Just breathe."

He inhaled slowly, holding her eyes and filling his lungs, like he had done before, waiting for her to copy. She followed his instruction automatically, matching his deep, quiet breaths until her head steadied and she could start blinking away the panic as he distracted her. Sharing his air and his gaze, she took in his appearance. The white in his eyes was too red, his skin too pale. Colours taken and switched with each other. The shadows beneath his steady regard seemed to grow in prominence the longer they remained locked and caught in one another. She knew this look well enough. It greeted her every morning in the mirror.

 _Tired. I'm tired, too._

Clara swallowed and blinked again.

"Okay?" John whispered, putting his other hand into her knee.

She nodded and pulled away from him, unlocking their fingers, catching the flicker of relief in his eyes before she stood up. Her clean hand pressed into the desk for support, her other wet with his blood, waiting to dry onto her palm. She closed her fist.

There were people in the studio _—_ Michael and their two engineers from the adjoining room _—_ watching in growing horror at the unfolding scene.

"Michael," John addressed quietly, looking towards the young man. "Would you mind getting me a towel? And some water, please?"

He nodded quickly, almost jumping at the door.

"Thank you."

Jack had moved backwards, shaking out his hand as he waited for Clara to step away. "You selfish fucking arsehole." There was no regret in his expression. If anything, he was waiting for another chance to repeat the assault. "Rory," he breathed out. "This is going to have to be fucking good, mate."

"We agreed, Jack."

"I don't know if I agreed to _this,_ though," he snarled, sending John a disgusted look.

"Yes you did," Rory snapped back. "You agreed to everything. And now, _now,_ is the time to deal with the consequences. So you're going to have to choose right now how this is going to end, and can I remind you—it's going to be so much worse if you don't adhere to plan fucking one."

"I think I've been doing pretty well since that part we found out he slept with her after knowing what Danny did to her."

"Jack," Rory continued, agitated, angry. "Amy fucking agreed! _Amy!_ If you're not going to listen to me, then at least keep that in mind."

"Yeah, and I'd be interested to know just how exactly her reaction would differ from mine. I think she'd still be hitting him."

"No she wouldn't! She's actually finally fucking listening for once in her life!"

Clara listened to their sudden burst of heated argument at the fringes of her hearing. She didn't understand what they were yelling about. Rory was swearing once again, so it must be serious. This was all very serious. She looked across to the glass window and wondered how long Michael would take. She was regretting not having accepted his tea offer.

"And once again, Jack, I'm having to act as your fucking parent. It's not _our_ decision. You want me to get Ianto on the phone so he can refresh you on a few key elements? Stop making this about you."

"Rory, Rory," he repeated, exasperated. "I know. Look, I know. Okay? I haven't forgotten. I'm just angry."

"Yeah, obviously. So am I."

"Jack, you weren't there on Tuesday," John said quietly, hand pressed over his mouth as blood continued to make its seeping escape. "It wasn't like that. It's _not_ like that."

"Shut your mouth," Jack snapped back. "I'm not ready to speak to you."

"I haven't finished," John replied, voice level. "You said I could explain myself."

"Shut your fucking mouth or I will hit you again." Jack was glowering, his right fist pressing slowly into the desk, leaning on it to restrain himself.

"You've had your free shot. Try it again and you're going to end up contributing to the blood donation I'm giving your studio."

"Like fuck I am."

"Jack!" Rory exclaimed.

"I'm not leaving," John snarled. "Not until I've had a chance to explain."

The door to the studio burst open. The higher powers, followed by Donna, whose expression was much less surprised than what Clara would have expected.

"Jack, Clara, outside," Michelle snapped, fiercely insistent. "Right now. Rory, I need you to queue tracks before Mickey can get here to take over. He's on his way. Switch to studio three, please."

"No one is going anywhere," John announced. "This is my interview. And it is not finished."

"Doctor," Michelle grimaced, closing her eyes with listless anger as she noted his bloodied condition. "I can only apologise to you, but this cannot contin _—_ "

"With the greatest respect, it doesn't actually sound like you've really been listening to the last hour of content we've been producing here. No one is leaving."

"I absolutely cannot have anything more from this broadcast to the public, from _any_ of you. Doctor, I'm sorry, but you've just been assaulted on air. How can I make this clearer? I need you two, outside, immediately."

John shook his head. "Michelle? Yes?"

She nodded and he stepped forward to stand beside Clara at the desk.

"What's the issue? Worried I'm going to complain about your unprofessional hosts?" John raised his eyebrows, imploring. "Firing insults at me. Putting me in an uncomfortable position. Death threats. Assault threats. _An assault._ Worried that I'm about to start doing my best to destroy the station through a lawsuit?"

"I can't _—_ " Michelle shook her head, pausing as the lights at one end of the studio switched from orange to green. "Rory," she growled, gesturing quickly at him. The track finished and they were back on air, microphones on their automatic fade, words broadcasting. Rory didn't seem to even register Michelle's presence. His gaze was fixed on Jack, an ongoing but silent conversation apparently being conducted between them.

"Look, I can't discuss that with you here and now. This is going to need representation. All I need, is for you two" _—_ She pointed at Jack and Clara once again _—_ "to get out of this studio. Immediately."

Michelle was sharp, insistent, _furious._

"I'm not interested, Michelle," Clara sighed, staring down at the hand she had supporting her on the desk. She frowned at her nails, registering the state of them. Manicure. With Amy. They used to do that. It looked like she'd been biting them without realising. She wondered if the police officer who had arrested her would give a recommendation.

"Don't make me do this on air," Michelle cut into her musing.

"I think we're well past caring about what's being broadcast to the nation now," Clara shrugged absently. "I mean we just did a link on how to make a cup of tea."

"All right. Clara, you're on leave, effective immediately. Pending further decision. Jack, this is serious. You need to come with me upstairs, right now to _—_ "

"Nope!" Jack interjected in a loud burst. "Absolutely not. I'm not standing for this."

"Don't be irrational," Michelle growled. She was cautious, very aware they were broadcasting. She indicated towards the engineers, gesturing at them for attention but distracted by Jack's persistence.

"I'm not being irrational!

"You have a responsibility to th—"

"You know what would have been responsible? Making Clara go on leave a month ago." Jack shrugged, raising his hands like it was obvious. "That would have been appropriate. Don't give me this 'responsible' bullshit."

"We've already had this discussion."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know," he sighed. "God, I'm not insisting you take responsibility. I'm just as much to blame for that. But I didn't know what to do. About _anything_. If you're surprised by what's happened here today, then I'm surprised at your lack of foresight."

"This is an ethical issue, Jack," Michelle frowned, pulling out her phone.

"It's not a fucking ethical issue," he snapped. "It's a publicity issue. Clearly. She's an integral part of this radio station right up until she might be doing a tiny bit of damage. If it was an ethics problem, you would have put her on extended leave the moment you found out her boyfriend died. Or at least after that little incident _in_ _front of your building._ Rightly or wrongly, I _told_ you to force her to take more time off. But you didn't because it wasn't convenient; so if I can please reiterate—let's not be surprised by this."

"This is not a conversation to have on air, for goodness sake," she snapped back. "You've just assaulted a guest and I absolutely cannot have you continuing to broadcast! Why is this so difficult to understand? I am not interested in anymore dramatics. I'm just trying to run a radio station. Stop overreacting and show a bit of professionalism please."

"Overreact?" he cried, incredulous. "How the hell should I be reacting to this?"

"Right, no—Jack," she snapped, shaking her head. "This is over. I'm sorry." She turned to the engineers. "Alexis, Seth, one of you switch out to track please. I need studio three open."

"Don't move," John snapped at them, a directive hand reaching out to stop their movement. "How about we just skip straight to the ultimatums?" He turned back to Michelle. "Stop this boring HR nonsense."

His voice was low and dangerous, threatening. "If you don't let me finish this interview, right now, on air, I will start filing lawsuits, or some sort of group litigation, or whatever the fuck it is that we do in this country. You can burn up in the traditional Radio 2 manner."

Michelle stopped in her tracks, lowering the phone she was raising to her ear. "Look, this isn't necessary—"

"Donna," he snapped. "Get Sarah on the phone. Tell her I've just been physically assaulted live on radio by the host. Then pass her over to Michelle here so she can tell her all about what's going to happen next. I don't know all the big, scary legal words, you see."

"Threatening her majesty's station," Clara said quietly, shaking her head with a tiny smile. "Treason, isn't it?"

"Well, didn't I voice my views on the monarchy not long ago?"

Concern spread across Michelle's stern features, but she narrowed her eyes. Not exactly the type of woman who would quail at a threat. "Listen, Doctor—"

"No, you listen. I'm not wasting my time arguing this. I have something more important to do. So, either you give me ten minutes to finish, or I'm going to take you and this station on a fieldtrip to the place where everyone's wearing those stupid wigs. And it's not going to be a fun fieldtrip. I will fucking destroy you. All right? Calm the fuck down and let me complete what I came here to do, uninterrupted, and this doesn't have to go any further."

Michael had reentered at some point and was standing in waiting at the side of the room. John gestured him over and received a bowl of hot water, a cloth and an ice pack. He wet the cloth with his blood-free hand, squeezing out the excess as he continued to Michelle. "You can sit here and listen, hold Jack's hand if you need to. But I am going to talk to Clara. Right now."

John took the parting step towards her and leant back against the desk, meeting her eyes. "If you'll let me," he murmured gently, offering the wet cloth towards her.

She hesitated but took it, uncurling her fist and wiping red from her palm and fingers, removing every trace of his injury from her skin. John twisted to continue his demanding address.

"I agreed to come here"—He gestured to the studio—"and participate in this show. And that is exactly what I am going to finish doing."

"This is not an appropriate way to deal with this situation."

"Michelle," Donna cut in as Clara returned to her chair on the other side of the desk. "We're beyond that now. Just let him speak. I'm sorry, I know this isn't ideal, but I can guarantee that it's going to be better than the alternative."

"Jesus," she breathed, raising her hands helplessly. "Can I state, for the record, I'm not okay with this. You've got ten minutes."

"Clearly." John nodded and turned to sit down. "Are we on, Rory?"

Rory had taken over the control desk. He nodded. "We're on."

"Give us an introduction then, would you, Jack? Probably will be your last one."

Jack's demeanor had changed. Whatever he had been going on between him and Rory, they had clearly reached some sort of decision that was stopping him from launching a further immediate assault.

"Right you are, Doctor. We're all professionals here." Jack straightened in his chair and brought the microphone closer to his face. " _Good_ afternoon! Welcome back to the show, that was—" He shrugged at Rory and then looked at his monitor. "What did we just play?"

"Loch Fleet."

"Loch Fleet," he repeated. "Courtesy of our guest here in the studio today—the _Doctor_ —and then right after that was The Sound Of Me Being Fired featuring Michelle From Upstairs, and right after _that,_ was a good round of old fashioned blackmail. If you're just tuning in, dialing up the numbers here on 88.91, you haven't missed much, not really, just the equivalent of a ten car pile up on the M25, or—what was our metaphor for today? The train heading toward Tay Bridge. A stormy, Scottish night, a shit bridge over water—"

"Ten or eleven on the Beaufort scale," John inserted, wiping the cloth over his cheek, wincing. "A right angle storm. Winds probably up to eighty miles per hour. Hell of an evening."

"Lovely! Choo fucking choo. As discussed, we're now using blackmail now to stay on the air for another few moments, and while it probably doesn't matter either way whether I'm here or not for this next part, I'm going to stick around like the professional I am, dwelling in the hope I can continue assaulting the man in the chair next to me, whose gorgeous face is already experiencing a bit of blood loss."

"Not a bad punch," John admitted. A curving red line that extended from his mouth to his cheek bone was making itself known beneath the layer blood he was wiping away.

"Quite right. Let me know when it's appropriate for round two because ding ding ding, I'm all _ready."_

Jack had pulled the microphone towards him as he leant back into his chair. Anger rushed unfiltered through the permanent agitation that had encased him. "Amidst the new terms and conditions of what I suspect will be the final part of today's final show, we'll be starting off with an explanation to a _confession_ we've just heard here live on Radio 2. Jaw going to be okay to use to speak, Doctor? Or do you want to write it all down and I'll put on my best Scottish accent and read it out."

"Perfectly fine to do my own Scottish, thank you."

"Righto! Sit yourselves down, get comfortable; ma'am, you're going to want to put the dogs out and ask for an extension on the red box. The Doctor is going to talk now. He's going to explain to Clara why he thinks it's okay that he's been committing adultery, lying about it and then sleeping with her knowing she was just on the receiving end of the same treatment from her recently dead boyfriend. That's a hell of a charge. Sound about right, Doctor?"

"Sounds exactly right."

"Let's hear it then. Clock's ticking. I've got a CV to hand in over at the Mail before five."


	18. It's Fine, It's Fine, Calm Down

**Chapter 18: It's Fine, It's Fine, Calm Down**

* * *

"There's a photo of you and Danny in Clarkson's autobiography on your bookshelf, Clara," John explained, raising his brows at her. "You missed that one. Is it obvious I knew before Tuesday? I think it was. I knew you were fucked since prison."

"Thanks," she smiled at him, his unedited brashness amusing her.

"I also _listen_ to this goddamn show and so I knew you had a boyfriend. Did none of you make that connection when I told you all?" He glanced toward Rory and then Jack, unimpressed. "Danny spent four weeks in here with you three writing that speech. Suppose I could have assumed you'd just broken up, but…" He shook his head at her. "You're _so_ fucked."

"Thank you." She smiled again.

"And your persistence in announcing your lack of ownership to Margaret Thatcher didn't exactly help your abnegation, either. Shame. She's lovely once you get to know her."

"Wait, wait, wait," Jack cut in, leaning forward with bewilderment. "Margaret Thatcher… _likes_ you?!"

"We seem to have acquired some sort of an understanding."

"That's an understatement," Clara corrected. "She loves you. I'd also rather reveal the entirety of my head to you than pretend to claim that ownership."

"Okay, this changes everything," Jack broke in. "Clara, why did you tell me this before? I just punched him in the face! Any misgivings could have been avoided straight away with this information!"

"Can I just make it clear to everyone Margaret Thatcher is a cat," Rory said quickly, "and not the resurrected Prime Minister."

"If the most evil creature in this world likes you, Doctor, then you must be all right."

Clara frowned. "That could be interpreted in a different way, Jack."

John gave her a wry smile. "Kindred spirit, yeah?"

"Hmm. Good point, actually," Jack reconsidered. "I take it back. This isn't conclusive evidence. Weird though. And just for the record—I would rather have the human version back in this world than that fucking cat."

"Can we ease off the explicit words at least, please," Michelle growled from across the room.

"I'll see what I can do! No promises though. I'm _very_ angry." Jack grinned and returned to the casual sprawl in his chair. "Margaret f-ing Thatcher. God. She didn't even like Danny."

"John voted for the human version."

He sighed, unimpressed. "You'll find, _Clara,_ if you actually bothered to do the maths, I wasn't even old enough to vote for any of her three terms."

"Oh," she said slowly. "Damn. That's sort of ruined my whole… political correspondent attack for today."

Jack slapped the table suddenly in unconstrained mirth. "Clara, Clara," he cackled. "Do you remember that time you asked Linda if she could give you the number for Hell's Animal Control so they could come and collect an escaped cat?"

She started chuckling, recalling the occasion. "Yeah," she laughed. "That went down well."

"Ah," Jack breathed, getting himself under control. "Simpler times. All right, on you go, Doctor—no, hang on. Does anyone have one of those gavel things used in a courtroom? I want one."

"They're used for punctuating rulings and calling attention," Rory said. "Not really as a starting device."

"Don't care. Michael, bring me a gavel," he growled into the microphone, looking in the direction of the glass and then back to John with a dangerous smile. "It's got multiple uses."

Jack balled his hand into a fist and banged on the desk to replicate his wanted device. "Get the fuck on with it for the last time!"

"I'm the one who keeps getting interrupted."

"Not interested!"

John sighed, pulling fingers through his hair. "Clara. I'm not expecting you to think this is justifiable. I would never ask that. Because it's not. It's awful. I just need you to listen."

"I'm not doing anything for you."

"Just… _listen,"_ he growled, insistent. His eyes flickered to Donna who was sitting beside Michelle across the room. They exchanged a glance before he pulled his chair closer to the desk and turned so he could look at Clara directly. She met his steady gaze, setting her mouth in a hard line. He shut his eyes for a moment and then began.

"The picture you saw of the three of us yesterday? On the bridge? That was just moments before we started getting noticed. I started to get… noticed. We were eighteen. And I had… oh my god," he breathed. "I had just _no idea_ what was about to happen. I was walking toward a cliff edge with a blindfold, completely naive about what would occur if I continued forward. The moment in which I could have stopped it passed without my notice. I didn't even know it was _there_ as an option until it had already gone. Couldn't turn around, impossible to return.

He splayed his hand flat in front of him and stared at his fingers before looking back up at her. "Eddie and Hamish dragged me along in this rush and over the cliff I went, down and down and down in a delusive, endless fall, and I never wanted it. I never, _never_ wanted any of this," he stressed. "Attention, acknowledgement, fame… I hated it from the start."

"But that's... John," Clara frowned in confusion. "That's the price for doing what you do and being good at it."

"I know," he nodded, sighing. "But I didn't _get_ it when I was young. All I ever had were a handful of songs and my two friends, and when we said yes to something, that something being writing our names on paper to sign away our lives—I didn't know what I was doing. So at first, I didn't understand it. I was taken completely by surprise and I thought, oh, this will be all right, I'm just not used it. But I will be soon."

John shook his head side to side slowly, eyes drifting away from her and fixing absently on the glass window.

"Instead, it was… a disaster." He swallowed twice, putting a hand against his throat. "I couldn't handle it. The instant our songs distributed into the world we were famous. Almost overnight. We'd signed with the label and suddenly we were locked into contracts and dates and had responsibilities. Everyone knew our faces and our names like… like we were suddenly embedded into people's lives, already with effigies and honours with our titles. There was no gradual build, just this instant change.

"I didn't know," he swallowed again, trying to clear his voice. "I didn't know what was happening to me."

John paused, blinking and shaking his head slightly as if he were disorientated. "Could I please have some water?" he asked quietly, looking at the glass.

"Michael," Jack instructed into the microphone. "Can you sort that, please."

John scrubbed a hand over his mouth. "Jesus. There were times when I was so sick. Ed would hold me up against the wall in a dressing room screaming at me because there were a thousand people outside screaming for us to get on the stage. The three of us…" He grinned suddenly. "God, we could fight. Think you did a good job on that punch there, Jack? You should get Hamish to teach you how to hit me. A Glasgow-bred drumming arm is what you need.

"They used to literally drag me down the corridors or backstage or wherever we were, yelling—here comes the doctor, John—here's your fix, here's the stage, here's the thing that will make you better, the doctor, the doctor, the doctor, because we don't have a fucking clue what to do." John started laughing slightly with amusement, brushing his fingers tentatively across his jaw. "And _every single time,_ in that first second I was up there, in front of everybody—I was fine. Like a switch flicking in my head. I just changed." He smiled, a vague reminiscence. "And for an hour, or two, or however long I was allowed to stay, I'd be in this daze thinking, this is where I'm supposed to be, this feels like home, this feels calm and right and fine—what the fuck was my problem before?

"We'd finish shows and for five minutes the three of us would jump up and down together, literally, riding on this fleeting moment—look at what we did, look at what we made, look at what we can do. Three kids who never had _anything_ but half a drum kit, a bass with an E string that never stayed in fucking tune, and a guitar I had to borrow from a friend because I couldn't afford one.

"All the fighting and the helplessness and the _I-don't-know-what-to-do,_ I thought it was somehow sustainable between us because in that moment, we were perfect and happy and properly loved each other. I loved them so much—sorry, sorry, don't know why I'm speaking like they're dead, they're both still very much alive. Hello. Ed, get a haircut, you stupid fuck. Anyway, I _love_ them. So while I was falling off this cliff, I could go somewhere good, and do something _incredible._ It made everything else worth it. Because everything else was… terrible."

Water was placed in front of him and he murmured his thanks before taking a sip. Clara watched his hand, the obvious tremor as he raised the glass. He looked sick. Pale and weak. Michael set a glass in front of her as well and she distantly murmured a thank you.

"The _media,"_ John breathed. "It was insane. Relentless. We started getting all of these awards and every person in the country had our records and every radio station was playing Loveland like it was necessary for the survival of the nation.

"I _hated_ it. I couldn't move. I couldn't handle people looking at me, asking me questions, following me in the street, wanting things. I ended up, sort of, not being able to talk to anyone. Couldn't go anywhere. I started to shut down. I refused to do interviews by myself. And while the boys were there with me, I would barely talk, just let them answer the questions."

John turned back to the water, another shaky gulp. "There was too much noise to drown out. Too much to ignore. And Eddie and Hamish, they were so fine. It didn't really affect them. Never had a problem with it and I couldn't understand that. They were surrounded with attention just like me, but they brushed it off like it was nothing. They'd just say—" A smile curved his mouth. "That age old saying. _Calm down._ Calm down, mate. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine, it's fine, you're fine, I'm fine, we're all fine, and it'll all be all right if you just _calm down."_

"Sound like anxiety," Jack cut in firmly, raising his brows slightly. "Yeah? Panic attacks."

John nodded slowly. "In reflection… yes. Probably. But I didn't know. And the… irony of it wasn't lost on me." He smiled suddenly. "Eventually I realised that if I wanted to play music, then this was how it had to be. I had to have the attention and the screaming and the constant scrutiny. Because I _did_ want to play music. Desperately. It was the only thing I could think about clearly. I could put everything in my head onto a page and hide it all beneath scrambled words and sounds and when I got back on the stage, I could tell everyone what was wrong with me and they'd never know. I'd be asked what the songs were about, you know—'what's the message of the album, Doctor? Well, Mr Wogan, it's all about how to fix your fucking refrigerator and drive responsibly.' I'd just make something up. Different every week.

"I was burning up. Like a sun. I was volatile and sick but we were so... _good._ Those first few years were the best and worst moments of my life."

He took a deep breath, scrubbing a palm over the back of his hair. "Then came _the_ evening. It's always been a prevalent moment, and we've always been asked about it because it's such a… beautifully raw scene. We were twenty three, I think?" He smiled softly, gaze a little absent in reflection. "I watch it back sometimes. The three of us stood at the front of a stage after an encore. Watching the crowd together. They were… were singing my words back to me. This crowd of five thousand strangers, repeating something I'd written over and over again, refusing to leave, just hanging in this suspended moment with us."

"Oh, I think I've seen— _we've_ seen this," Jack frowned, glancing at Rory. "Was it in Manchester? Open air concert? Ianto showed us the video."

John nodded slowly. "Ah, yes. Manchester. It's our iconic moment, I suppose. Encapsulating everything we could do together as three. You can see Hamish leaning into me at one point. I've been asked so many times to repeat what he said. And I respond… 'Oh, I have no idea. I've forgotten'. Well, that's a lie. He said in my ear—" John smiled. "In his very Hamish way. I remember it so clearly. 'Shame you're so fucked, John. Can't you see they love you?'"

A heavy sigh escaped his lips. "I've never understood why. Why people like our songs. Why they want to talk to _me._ I get it explained and I can't—can't process it properly. Doesn't work in my head. I can't translate it into anything that makes sense."

He bit into his lip and then frowned. "Here's something else we've never told anybody. We left the stage. And Eddie grabbed me by the back of the neck and the two of them forced me into our dressing room and slammed the door. I was pretty fucked by this point, our five minute rush up.

"They told me it was over. Couldn't watch this happen to me anymore. I think I screamed at them, maybe something along the lines of, 'didn't you just see what we did, what more can you _want_ from me?' I didn't want to lose what we'd made, because it was truly the only thing keeping me together.

"Masochism, maybe," he grinned suddenly at Clara. "It hurt, but it felt too good to stop.

"I was so angry that they wanted to take that away from me. That they would leave me alone like that. Because I couldn't do any of this without them. My… brothers. Once it was gone, once I'd lost the only two people I could be around, I just… broke. I hit Eddie, and then Hamish tackled me and I accidently hit my head here"—John drew a line from the hairline on his right temple to the top of his ear—"on the edge of a table. I passed out for a moment."

John exhaled, slowly tracing a finger across his cheek where Jack had hit him. "There is no… no feeling in the world like standing in front of twenty thousand people and listening to them sing back. I see video sometimes of us playing, and there's these huge crowds and I always have this odd moment where I think, 'I wonder what that would feel like?' And then I realise I _do_ know. And I… I have this visceral sense of panic and elation. You become the most powerful person amongst thousands. And I can understand it there, but not anywhere else. Outside of it, it doesn't work in my head."

He shifted slightly, uncomfortable now. "I have a life where I can't go into a supermarket. Couldn't... couldn't take my niece to a playground. Can't take her now to _the shops."_ He smiled softly. "I don't actually know what 'the shops' is, or what that involves. But she's thirteen, so I'm guessing… Well, she probably doesn't need me to take her. And I want so desperately want to be able to. I want to be able to sit in the middle of Trafalgar Square and… well. I don't know. I just want to be able to sit there. What I'd really like is to go to the Science Museum and look at things and not feel like I'm going to have a fucking breakdown because I'm alone and surrounded by people."

Jack was frowning in confusion. "You were all right the other night in the bar though, right?"

"Yes, I was fine. That was a little different… I knew what was happening, who was there, where we were… so I can force myself to calm down. I don't actually know what is wrong with me. I, ah…" He frowned, contemplating. "I've just trained myself to relax. Why doesn't everyone text in their diagnosis?

"Christ," he sighed, putting his fingers in his eyes for a moment. "I know I sound incredibly ungrateful. But I'm not. It didn't—doesn't—mean I've never appreciated what it means to have people appreciate _me._ I'm not saying I hate people approaching me to say hello or wanting to talk to me. It's amazing, actually. I'm always surprised. After all this time. That I might have affected their lives in some way. It's surreal. But I don't understand it."

Clara picked up her glass of water, drinking the cold liquid but keeping her eyes fixed on him as she listened to him speak.

"That night… in Manchester. I pushed the boys off me and just stumbled out of the room." John laughed abruptly as if startled by the lunacy of it. "I was bleeding profusely and had a fucking awful headache. I remember finding a first aid kit somewhere and self-administering a bit of medical attention. It's a little blurry… but then, _then,_ that same fucking night, I met River." John stopped again, considering. "I'm not entirely sure how I managed to get there. But I ended up at an after-party for some film she'd been working on. I must have looked…" He exhaled helpless laughter, rubbing his eyes. "River has always laughed at me about it. I had this bandage around my head that was half soaked in blood, face and clothes too, and I was covered in dirt from falling through a garden outside. Because I was drunk. And concussed."

Jack started cackling and John glanced to him. "I'd reached peak crazy," he grinned, lifting his shoulders. "I was walking around this party shaking people's hands and pointing at my head saying, 'Hello, I'm the Doctor,' and then just wandering on to the next person." He shook his head at the absurdity. "She knew who I was. And I recognised her, too. So—young me, young John… I was just enamoured by her instantly. She was so confident and sure and knew exactly what she wanted. And I clung on to that, to her, because she was offering me something I could… _use._ It was like meeting the solution to my problem."

John exhaled, his moment of humour dispersing and his face taking on an even further pallid tinge. "Oh, she was so good. She knew how to deal with fame, knew how to deal with attention. I think, Jack—if you don't mind me making an assumption—you're quite similar to River in that way. You're at ease around people. Attention doesn't phase you. Not really. It can get misinterpreted as an ego thing, but really it's just this natural tendency to be relaxed. Which is a very… elusive concept to me. That confidence she has... Jack, when I'm around someone like you, someone like River, all the pressure is momentarily taken away. They're in charge, in control. I don't need to do anything. I don't need to make my own decisions.

"River always knew I had a problem but I never explained it. Never told her what was happening in my head. And instead of understanding it, she gave me a way to hide and function. I could pretend to be someone else with her. Delude myself that this sort of life was what I wanted. That achieving critical acclaim would make everything worth it, that hearing myself on the radio meant I'd achieved something good.

"So I… broke our relationship the moment it began. The person that was enamoured when I met her, that wasn't really me. From day one I _needed_ something from her, something I could use so I could function, so I could go back to Eddie and Hamish and say, _look, I'm better now, let's make songs and be amazing._ This fake, false fix, a facade, a _pretend_ version of myself. The Doctor. I didn't want _her,_ I wanted music, and I wanted them."

Gritting his teeth, he continued. "Technically, in reality on that Manchester night, we were halfway through a tour. Our label and our managers were ruthless with Hamish and Ed once they realised what was happening. The chaos it caused when they tried to leave, especially because I was so adamant that I wanted them to stay, was... Well. It was a mess."

He sighed, half groaning into his hands. "Oh, I owe them something I can never repay. They were so selfless. They… chose to put me first. We were so _young_ but we all knew how good we were. Not in terms of songwriters and musicians, but as three, as friends.

"I asked them to stay. Begged them, actually." John smiled very softly at Clara. "The one and only time.

"And… they did. They stayed. I forced them into making that decision under an illusion of choice, and it wasn't the right decision. But… it worked for awhile. For years. My pretend self, my pretend fix. With River, I calmed down. Ed and Hamish were never fooled. Not really. But I became an expert at pressing it all down and on the surface it worked. I wasn't doing anything except crushing it into my chest, building a dam against it. But they let me have my fleeting minutes of happiness on all those stages we went to play on.

"It worked all the way up to the point where it… didn't. I was being eaten alive from this resulting guilt of my relationship. So I just…" John frowned, brushing slow fingers through the back of his hair. A large exhale of air escaped his mouth and he bent forward into the desk, touching his head to the wood. A few moments of silence passed before Jack filled in the gap.

"All right, Doctor?" he asked carefully. Jack's tone had changed. His voice had become very soft, devoid entirely of the anger he had inhibited earlier.

"Not really, Jack," he replied with a shrug, voice slightly muffled. "I feel a little bit sick."

"Can we get you something?"

"A time machine?"

"I can offer you a bucket or some paracetamol. That's about it."

John lifted his head with a wry smile. "Absolutely useless." He picked up his glass and took another small sip. "This is an awful lot of talking isn't it. My apologies, Michelle. I might have overrun on these ten offered minutes. If you don't mind, which I'm sure you do, I'll need to extend out my blackmail. Do we have to cut to the hourly news or something?"

"I think this is the news," Jack shrugged.

"What if the Queen's died?"

"How… _dare_ _you,"_ Jack scowled, fighting off a grin. "Your majesty, I am _so_ sorry for this behaviour."

"Actually on that," Rory interrupted. "We'd just get switched straight out to Radio 4 for the announcement."

"Jack," Clara murmured, "can you imagine if you personally had to read it out from a note?"

Jack shook his head in horror. _"Don't_ hypothetically make this day worse."

"Mmm," John frowned, pondering. "Only the Queen can stop it…" A tiny smile crossed his mouth. "Oh well. Okay. Well, I wouldn't have let you cut to the news anyway. I'll just skip to the good bit."

He blinked and set his glass down. "I met a woman one evening. She had absolutely no idea who I was." He shook his head quickly. "I was so surprised by it. When you walk into a room and everybody looks at you, that's what you get used to expecting. I guess at the time it threw me for a moment. We were touring some horrendous schedule of dates and I was tired and stressed. And the media afterwards at these things. I couldn't—"

John grimaced. "That night I remember snapping at someone. I don't remember what he did. Got to close, or touched me, probably. I lashed out. Put my shoulder into him and slammed him into a wall. I hadn't done that before. I'd felt like I'd come close to it, but I could always restrain myself. _Calm down,_ it's fine, it's fine, it's fine, you're fine. I could barely _see_ I was so distressed by it, and on top of this guilt I couldn't process towards River. Both of us knew by then we shouldn't have been together. We just… I don't know. Reached this strange point of dependency. But the longer it went on, the worse I felt. I couldn't talk to her or be honest because this was the sort of life she wanted. She'd gone into this world knowing exactly what she was going to receive back. And I could never ask her to want anything different. I desperately, _desperately,_ needed an out. When I met this woman, and she didn't know who I was—"

"I'm guessing she wasn't British then," Jack cut in.

"No," he said, smiling slightly. "American. We were in America. East coast, I think. I…" His fingers drummed over the wooden desk. Grey eyes on Clara. "I took her to my hotel room and used her to destroy a relationship built upon on my total dishonesty. I wasn't sleeping with her because I wanted sex, or an affair, or company, or some fleeting shred of intimacy. I wanted to break this continuous cycle.

"So I did. Gladly. With relief. And it was an unforgivable way to go about doing it. Which was exactly what I wanted. I didn't have to try and explain why I couldn't explain. It was just ripping off my own band-aid. Unforgivable," he repeated. "Cruel. Any adjective you want is appropriate. I've been through most of them. River's been through most of them.

"I was supposed to tell her after that night." He put his mouth nearer to the microphone. "'River, I slept with someone else. You don't have to be with me anymore'. That's what I was supposed to say. Except when I saw her, I didn't say it. Because nothing had really changed. I hadn't fixed anything. I still needed her. I just broke up with her in my head.

"So… that's what I did. For years. Not all the time. Just when it was bad and I didn't want to feel anything. When the rocks at the bottom of the cliff were sinking into my chest. And doing that made me numb eventually. And I thought feeling numb… was better than feeling anything."

John ran tentative fingers over his chest. "If I had to guess, I would say that Eddie and Hamish knew what I was doing. In fact… I know they knew. But I didn't let them confront me about it. I made them… put me first. Once again. And Jeremy, he must have known as well. After what happened the other week, I'm almost certain. He's not the sort of man who would do that without reason."

"Did you know?" Clara directed emotionlessly at Donna across the desk, automatically adding her name with ingrained broadcasting training. "Donna?"

"Yes," she nodded slowly. "I knew."

"I've told her most of this before," John explained. "She's the only person I've ever admitted this to. I, ah… I had an incident and I needed help. Years ago. A woman I was sleeping with threatened to go to the press. And I just couldn't let River find out like that. It was too cruel. Have it spread across the country for everyone to see as well. So I didn't have a choice. I went to Donna and we fixed it."

"How?"

"Paid her off." He put his elbow into the desk, fingers over his eyes, not able to look at her. His voice dropped. "A lot. Made her sign something. It was awful. Fuck, it was bad. Sounds terrible, is terrible."

"You were okay about all of this?" Clara swallowed, looking across to Donna.

"No, Clara, I wasn't," Donna sighed. "Of course not. But essentially, if nothing else, I was doing my job."

"And that wasn't enough to make you consider 'maybe I should stop this now'?" she directed incredulously at John. "To do the right thing and _tell your wife?"_

"No," he breathed.

"Look at me," Clara directed. "Don't speak at the desk. If it was about breaking your marriage, I don't understand why you couldn't just _tell_ her? You could have told her. You _can't_ have been _that_ selfish. Why stay in a relationship you didn't want to be in?"

He was silent, eyes dropping.

"This is your fucking confession, John," she snapped. "No answer to that?"

"Clara…" he swallowed. "Our relationship—River… she loved me. In spite of what I did to her, I loved her, too. Maybe that sounds hard to believe. But I did. We didn't spend our entire marriage unhappy. We were good together. Just not in the right way. And I didn't… I didn't want to destroy her life—"

"But that's what you've done anyway! In what world do you think your partner would rather stay ignorant to the fact you've been cheating on them? Why _the fuck_ did you not…" Clara exhaled in frustration. "You don't do that to someone who you love. Jesus. This is was an inevitable outcome."

He was silent again.

"How many?" she snapped. "How many women?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes it matters," she growled at him.

"Not as many as you're clearly thinking."

"How many?"

"Seven. Eight. Maybe more. Over a long period of time." John seemed agitated suddenly. "But I'm not actually in the goddamn stand here and I don't keep mental records like that. I want to forget about it, so I try to."

"What number am I?"

"What?" he replied, confused. "You're not a number."

"Yes I am. Nine? Ten? Fifteen?"

"You're not one of those women! You don't count—"

"All right," she shrugged. "That's actually worse."

"No, I mean, you're not—" He broke off and growled in frustration. "Why aren't you listening to me?"

"I am listening to you!" she exclaimed, half rising out of her chair. "So far, all I've heard is that you've got some serious fucking problems and you've dealt with them by lying and fucking up someone else's life for the last fifteen years! None of that is justifiable, John! Jesus Christ, you should have done _something_ better than that. That was… unbelievably selfish." Clara shook her head in disbelief. "You're expecting me to offer you some sort of forgiveness for that? Let alone after using me for your messed up methods of self-abuse?"

"I am _not_ fucking using you, Clara!" he snapped, angry. "You _must know_ I'm not using you. How could you really think that? Just because your boyfr—"

"This isn't about Danny!" she cried. "This is about not wanting to be apart of wrecking someone's life!"

"But my relationship with River has been over for years," he expressed. "I told you that!"

"Oh, well done. Well _done_ for lying and misleading me about the circumstances of your marriage."

"I'm telling you now, Clara!"

"Yeah, and why didn't you tell me when I asked? I explicitly asked you."

"Oh, let's not start being fucking irrational," he snarled. "What would have happened, huh? Think you ever would have spoken to me after that? Our little prison adventure would have been extra fun after I'd revealed those details. You only asked to provoke me. And I barely fucking knew you, so you can't expect me to have wanted to divulge that."

"You've had multiple occasions to tell me since."

"And _all_ of them would have resulted in this," he waved. "This right here."

She shook her head in disgust. "Exactly. You were never going to tell me."

"I was going to tell you! I just wanted—I _wanted_ you to know me first."

"That doesn't make it any better, John! For fucksake, it makes it worse. You'll just what? Make me like you enough so that when you finally got around to mentioning your less than exemplary record with infidelity, I wouldn't really mind?"

"That's not wh—"

"I don't know how you think a normal person's brain works because it certainly isn't that."

"Then that's it," he exclaimed, raising his hands. "I told you I can't defend myself. I don't have any justification to offer you."

"You slept with her, mate," Jack commented, twisting to face him directly. "After we told you about Danny. Don't think we've forgotten. Want to explain your way around that?"

"Jack," he snapped. "I didn't coerce her into anything. I wasn't using her. I wasn't taking advantage. Clara." He swallowed. "Can you please tell him? Clara?"

She was silent, only staring back at him.

"That wasn't… that was not _sex_ when we slept together." John's expression changed, confusion flashing over his austere features. "Clara," he frowned. "No—" He leant forward, pushing away from the microphone, lowering his voice. "That's not what happened. I didn't… None of that was pretend or deceit. You… you know that, right? Do you really think I was using you?"

"That's exactly what I think," she snarled back. "That's what you've done with every other woman. That's what you've done with your wife."

"Okay," he swallowed, blinking slightly like he was suddenly startled and caught under headlights. "Should we… do you want to stop?"

"Yes, please. I'm done." She pushed her chair back, beginning to rise.

"Oh, no," Jack suddenly cut in, standing up with her, pointing a directive finger. "Absolutely not. I didn't just completely destroy my radio show for you to stop now. No, no, no. Clara, you're hearing this out until the end. We all had the chance to stop when my fist went in his face. Train's left the fucking station, mate. So sit the fuck down and hear him out."

She shook her head, not interested in his reasonings.

"Sit down!" Jack yelled, not with anger but simply pure command. "Clara—you are not leaving this fucking studio. I don't care if I physically have to hold you here. And don't test me, because I'm in a very serious mood. And also, Michael, if you don't bring me a goddamn banging stick soon, I'm taking you down with me."

Jack glared at them, eyes glittering with resilience. _"Neither_ of you are leaving. Don't think you can just change your mind now, Doctor. We're going all the way to the fucking bridge. So carry on. You were up to the part where you were being a selfish bastard."

John nodded but seemed to be struggling to speak.

"Right, I'll prompt this disaster, shall I?" he continued as John stayed silent. "River found out. How did that happen?"

John looked more than nauseous now. He swayed very slightly and put a hand out to steady himself. Clara returned slowly to her seat, more so because standing felt a little difficult. Jack's serious threat encouraged the action. She wasn't sure she had the strength to physically try and fend him off anymore.

"Talk!" her friend snapped bitterly at John.

"Accidently," he started, swallowing. "River found out accidently." Blinking, he ran his fingers over his throat. "It doesn't really matter, but in hindsight I think Jeremy might have done a bit of orchestrating in it, which I suppose he had every right to do. I forced him into that position, as well. River wasn't surprised. She told me afterwards she already knew." He lowered his head into his hands, pressing trembling fingers through his hair. "I was seeing a woman. Nothing ever resembled a relationship in the slightest. Just sex. No talking or intimacy or… God, that sounds cruel." He groaned and ground his palm into his eye. "And River very _literally_ found out. I was done after that. I moved out of our house and suggested we could now get a divorce.

"And quite rightly," he said slowly, "she retaliated. Because I refused to offer her any explanation. Still. After all that time. I still refused to talk to her about it."

He ran long fingers over his mouth and stared fixated at his other hand.

"Jeremy…" he mused, frowning slightly. "They were always close. And I always thought… well. It doesn't matter. But he's a good man. I've treated her in such an awful way. River… I love her. I always will. But I never should have married her and I never should have even spoken to her."

His eyes flickered to Clara, suddenly waiting for some sort of response.

"You're done?"

He didn't reply, just darted his eyes over her expression.

"I don't actually know what to say to you, John," she swallowed. "You just really… you really fucked that up, didn't you." She lifted her shoulders slowly, staring at him. "I'm so glad you're getting a divorce. For her sake. Jesus. You're a mess."

She turned to Jack and then Rory. "Well, as entertaining as this has been, I'm still pretty much done, too," she sighed, pushing her chair backwards slightly. "I don't want to hear this anymore. Rory, you can switch us out."

"What would you have done in my situation?" John cut in over her.

Clara shook her head. "Trying to justify it now?"

"No, I'm just interested."

"I would like to think I wouldn't have been so selfish."

"Why did you sleep with me?"

"What?"

"Why did you sleep with me?"

She blinked, thrown by the question. "I don't want to talk about that on the radio," she swallowed, shaking her head.

"You were using me." There was no accusation in his tone, if anything, it sounded like he was gently letting her in on something obvious.

She shook her head again in confusion. "No, I wasn't."

"Clara, you were. It's okay. I wanted you to. I wanted to help."

"You think I was being selfish by sleeping with you?"

His eyes were soft. "Yes. But I knew what you were doing. And River knew, too. What she did for me. She _wanted_ to help. I did use her, but she always knew. Right from the beginning. If nothing else, I gave her that."

Clara shook her head slowly, astounded at what he was doing. "So… I've been using you now. Great. Thanks for that. Thanks for putting me in an untenable position. What the hell did River get back from you?"

"Well, I'm a marvelous husband," he shrugged. "Is that not obvious?"

John stopped talking. His eyes fixed back on her, unrelenting and inexorable.

"This is a lovely bit of silence, isn't it," Jack sighed, leaning forward into the microphone. "For the radio. I could commentate, I suppose. To my left, the Doctor, in front of me, across the desk, Clara. They're staring at each other. I'm not sure they're aware we're here anymore, the other people in this room—"

"Your boyfriend was a fucking idiot, Clara," John said suddenly, breaking their deadlock. "I wish we could have met so I could have administered him a solid punch in the face like he deserved."

Rory chuckled and Jack's face broke into a grin. "Danny was quite a big guy."

"I'm the one who's been arrested for assault," John replied, barely glancing at him. "Watch your mouth, Jack."

"This has been a very violent conversation," Clara remarked quietly, an absent but probably quite accurate comment.

"Whatever his reasons were," John continued, "you are never going to know. He doesn't get to tell you. You're never going to be able to ask him. You don't get that right anymore. And yeah, I don't know what it feels like to have someone you love betray you like that. But I know what it feels like to have done it. To lie and to betray trust. And it is awful."

"Yeah," she replied, nodding slowly. "You must feel so terrible. Really bad. Do you want me to give you a hug? Shall we start drafting out my forgiveness speech?"

"No, I don't want that."

"You want me to forgive Danny then? Is that it? Because if I do that, you think I'll be able to forgive you?"

"No!" John was agitated again, shifting in his chair. "If I thought there was any chance of you forgiving me, then I would be on the fucking floor in front of you asking for it. But there's not, Clara. There's not. Okay? I already understand that. I knew that from probably the first moment I looked at you. I can't forgive myself for any of this, so why the fuck would I expect you to? I deserve this," he breathed, fist pressing into the desk. "I've deserved this my entire life. For lying. To everyone. Because of dishonestly, and weakness, and selfishness. So I don't get to have what I want anymore."

"Well that's just great, isn't it. What would you like me to do now? Because I'm pretty sure if I don't forgive you, I'm going to look like the bad guy."

He shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Yes, you do. This is what's supposed to happen now, isn't it? You've given the nation your confession and now you're all regret and remorse. And I'm supposed to say, 'oh my god, Doctor, I didn't understand what you'd been through. How awful. I know you lied to me, but I guess I can forgive you, after all, we all make bad decisions sometimes'."

"No one is thinking that."

"Of course they're thinking that. You're our fucking national treasure."

"And that makes it okay? What the fuck are you talking about? That I'm above blame because of who I am?"

"We were put," she stated, "in our own fucking holding cell because of who you are. Your privilege extends far beyond the normal capacity for tolerance and forgiveness."

He looked at her with disbelief. "So? What exactly do you want _me_ to do about that? You don't think I've condemned myself enough yet? How about the fact I knew what the press would do to you? That I knew about Danny? And that I let it all happen? All I'm doing now is being honest. I can't help it if that's the prerogative of fame."

"Yeah, and you've done a perfect job of setting me up to be in a position where I don't have any options. I'm just telling you what it looks like."

"Why do you suddenly care what other people think? We've spent two weeks with degrading headlines. You didn't have a problem then."

"That's because those headlines weren't true!"

"What—and you think they're real now? That it's all just _so wrong_ that your boyfriend has only just died and that you're vulnerable and depressed and so when I come along, it's such a perfect moment for me to take advantage because my relationship is broken too? You can have _your_ revenge affair with me? Because all of this, all of _this_ was only ever about _sex?_

"Well, fuck that, Clara. That is not what happened. Sharon can write her articles and your friends can make their assumptions and hate me—"

" _My_ friends are being affected by this."

"Yeah. Of course they are. And you know what? I don't care. I don't care if they are and I don't care if we look like the headlines. I _don't care_ if that's what it looks like anymore. It's not real. I was _not_ your revenge affair. You and me… we were just _good."_

"Don't tell me how to feel."

"Oh for fucksake," he growled, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"You don't get to be angry at me," she snarled back, fists clenching in her lap.

"Why not?" he shrugged. "You're doing a good job of making me."

" _Are_ you angry at me?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes! Yes I am fucking angry at you! I can't believe you can just dismiss the last two weeks so readily! And, if you also haven't realised—you didn't tell me about Danny, either. Maybe you should have done that in one of these 'multiple situations' you're insisting on."

"You didn't ask."

"Did you want me to ask? No, don't worry about answering, I'll do it for you. No—you didn't. Don't put that on me."

"I didn't have to tell you!"

"Why? What's the difference between our dishonesty? You think I'd be okay sleeping with someone without knowing their cheating boyfriend had just died and they were using me for _their_ revenge affair?"

"That's obviously not what I was doing! You just said that wasn't what I was doing!"

"Wasn't it? How would I know?" He shrugged, indifferent. "You didn't tell me. Your friend had to fucking plaster me with it instead."

Across the room, Donna exhaled loudly. "For god's sake," she sighed, pressing weary fingers into her forehead.

"Enjoying this, are you, Donna?" John scowled across at her.

"Darling, you always come across as so sanctimonious. You're not helping yourself being like this."

"Doesn't matter." Clara countered, shaking her head. "I'm not going to forgive you, John."

"Fine!" he exclaimed. "Good."

"Good?"

"Yeah, good."

"All right then," she shrugged. "Glad we're on the same page. I think we're done now."

"Sure, we're done. You're too obstinate to have a conversation with."

"This wasn't a conversation."

"No, you're right. A conversation means both sides are listening to each other. You're being completely fucking intransigent."

Clara shook her head again in disbelief. "You're the one forcing me into the unreasonable position. You don't have to be asking for forgiveness to imply that you want it."

John groaned and then lifted his hands in frustration. "Of _course_ I fucking want it, Clara! But stop thinking that's what this is about, because it's not!"

"What do you want from me then?"

"Nothing! I want nothing from you!" he argued, hands now tugging on his hair. "Jesus, we're going in circles. I don't expect you to forgive me!"

"Then what is the point of any of this?" she cried. "Why the fuck are you even telling me? Why are you fighting with me?"

"I'm fighting _for_ you, you idiot!" he yelled back, half rising from his chair. "Why do you think I'm here? I want to take you home! Do you not understand that yet? I want to cook you rice and show you chords on the piano and watch your face when I make tea and make stupid jokes and tell you useless science facts. I want to write you songs! I've never wanted to write another person a fucking song in my entire life! I want to take you to bed, and help you and hold you and _Jesus Christ_ ," he breathed. "I've known you for _fourteen days._

"You've completely…" He exhaled, putting his hands through his hair again in disbelief. "I don't know what you've done."

"And I don't understand that, John! I don't understand why you would want that from me. I can't offer you anything. I don't know how to help you. I'm not… I have nightmares and I can't sleep. And I'm…" She swallowed, raising up her now blood-free left hand. "... having some _problems._ You could have anyone. Regardless of your actions. You're _the Doctor._ I'm just…"

"Oh my god," he breathed, shaking his head. "Clara. How could you not understand? You're so blind. Which is ironic, really. Have you forgotten how we met? You with your eyes and your…" He took a deep breath and then sighed, blinking. "No one has _ever_ looked at me like that. Ever. I've had sympathy and empathy, and people who have dealt with the same sort of exposure, but never… _that."_

John ran fingers over his chest and then laid both his palms flat against the desk. "I lied to you, all right? On purpose. Selfishly, unforgivably, because I didn't want to lose the first person I'd ever met who made me feel like I didn't have to hide from myself. Don't you understand? I was safe. When you looked at me, _I was safe._

"That's who you are. You're brilliant, and you make me laugh, and you're so beautiful. And for a little moment, you made me happy. I haven't been happy in a very long time. I don't know how else to tell you. You were in my fucking head the moment you looked at me. You were in my veins."

Clara stared at him. John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "We're done, Jack," he breathed out, pushing his chair back and standing up. "We can stop now. This is over."

Jack mirrored his actions immediately. "Sit," he snarled slowly, pointing back at the chair, _"the fuck down."_

Clara was pretty certain she had never heard her friend speak in such a devastatingly insistent way. It startled her a little. John blinked and retreated, almost instantly obeying the command.

Jack shook his head slightly before cutting into the momentary silence. _"Jesus._ I am _so_ sick of this afternoon. You're done? Great. About fucking time. Thank you for all that chatter. You can shut your mouth now. But _we're_ not done. I know exactly what we're going to do next." Jack pointed a finger at him. "Jury selected by the prosecution, was it? Well that's just absolutely _perfect._ Let's round all this up properly.

"Rory," he snapped happily. "Get Ianto and Amy on the phone. Court is adjourned, jury is out—Michael, where's my gavel—so you two can just sit there and shut the hell up."

"Headphones," Rory instructed, sliding spare sets to Donna and Michelle as he patched the calls through the control desk.

The studio door opened and Michael slid quickly into the room. "Um, couldn't find a gavel… but I found this wooden spoon from the kitchen?"

Jack took it from him, rapping it against the desk. "Not bad, not bad. Radio, _innit._ Who's gonna know? Thank you very much."

"Am I on, Rory?" Ianto's voice came through the headphones, broadcasting for the nation to hear.

"Loud and clear."

"Jack, guys, this is easily the best show you've ever done," Ianto expressed. "Forget The Wedding. This is what I'd rather spend my licence fee on."

"Hello, love," Jack smiled. "Amy?"

"Afternoon," she replied briskly. "Before we continue, _small_ issue—why the hell didn't you call me during the part when Clara was getting accused of waving the red flag? You all let that go far too quickly."

"I knew you were going to bring that up, Amy," Ianto laughed. "How's your face, Doctor?"

"Jaw intact, teeth attached."

"Quiet in the stand!" Jack exclaimed, spoon banging on the desk once again. "No questions."

"What the fuck is this, Jack?" John persisted, confused. "You're all going to tell me what you think of me now? Save yourselves a job. I already know."

"Shut up," Jack growled. "You're done."

"Mmm," Amy agreed. "Shut up."

"Well, well, well," Jack drawled, looking at Rory. "Here we all are then. Anyone have any comments?"

"I _cannot_ believe Margaret Thatcher likes the Doctor," Ianto offered. "She barely tolerated Danny. The man that named her Sparkles."

"I'd like to mention that I almost threw up in the instructional tea link," Amy put in.

"Oh, yeah!" Ianto exclaimed. "Yeah. That was bad. Doctor, that is disgusting."

Rory interrupted Amy's further remarks of revulsion. "Did you paint that watercolour in Clara's office?"

"Yes," John replied quietly.

"Holy fuck."

"Rory!" Jack exclaimed in horror. "You were our last thread of professionalism! I will _not_ tolerate that language from you, thank you very much!" He straightened in his chair and scowled at Rory's following eye-roll. "I like to uphold a high standard on this show. And what watercolour?"

"Was that a birthday present?" Rory questioned, looking at John.

A quick nod.

Rory raised his eyebrows at Jack. "Our present to Clara has been upstaged by the J.M.W. Turner reincarnate over here."

"Wait—you can paint, Doctor?" Ianto said in confusion.

Rory exhaled amusement. "Have I just exposed another secret? Yes, he can paint. Wait till you see this thing, Ianto. It's incredible."

" _I_ want to see this painting," Jack frowned, spinning to look at Clara.

"Excuse me," Michelle cut in loudly from across the room. "I was starting to get the impression this mess might have been about to wrap up."

"Yes, _boss,"_ Jack stressed with an amiable grin. "Well then—Rory, Amy, Ianto—are we all agreed? Unanimous verdict?"

"Definitely," Ianto concurred.

"Absolutely," came Amy's reply.

"Wait, wait," John frowned, confused as Rory hummed his approval. "You didn't even agree on anything. Why is this happening? This isn't—"

"I said _quiet!"_ Jack yelled, banging spoon meandering into closer territory.

"You stupid idiot," Amy growled. "You think Clara's in a state to make any smart decisions right now?"

"And we've been making some terrible decisions in the last month about her," Ianto continued, "Like fuck are we going to let that happen again. This is a rare moment for me, isn't it, Jack? Will this be what our marriage is like? Amy, is this a new direction for me and you as well?"

"Don't push it, Ianto," Amy replied. "I love you but I wouldn't count on it."

"Any final words, Doctor?" Jack offered, twisting in his chair to look at him. "You can speak."

John was silent for a beat. "I know the final part of Anne's final words," he swallowed, quiet now. "On the Green, on the scaffolding."

"Perfect. Let's hear them then."

He took a deep breath and straightened in his chair, pulling his hands behind his back as if tied. His eyes closed. Voice deep, wavering and then steady, a weary poet's reading from memory.

"And... if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to _judge the best._ And thus, I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God... I _commend my soul."_

A weighted breath of silence filled the air before Clara spoke, her gaze fixed onto his glassy, tired eyes as he opened them slowly.

"Jack, I want you to hit him again."

The studio fell back into silence. John closed his eyes, this time in defeat, shoulders sinking, head lowering in an accepting nod through the dead air. Another weighted moment. Clara stared at the microphone in front of her. Extended silence on the radio always felt disconcerting. It meant something was wrong. It was a void that was impossible to stop listening to. Every breath became a conscious movement, heightened in the dead, dead, dead—

Jack started laughing. A knowing sound, warm and familiar. It rippled into the room, crushing the black emptiness of _nothing,_ and as Rory joined in, Amy and Ianto's similar soft response was added through the headphones and filled the void completely.

"No," Jack laughed, leaning into the desk toward her, a little incredulous. "No. I'm done. Clara, this is over. We're just being… pointlessly dramatic now." He switched his gaze and held up his right fist. "Look. Jury's on your side, Doctor. Unanimously. This isn't atonement, or… any sort of exoneration. You're either the best or worst person our friend here has met in a long time and _unfortunately,_ with all events now considered, I've been pretty stupid thinking I had any control over it."

Clara stared at him, confused again. She had no idea what was going on now. She also didn't really feel like caring much anymore. Her mind blurred slightly, lack of sleep affecting her train of thought.

"You're not… suddenly all fine with this," she said slowly, impassive as she cast her gaze between between Jack and Rory. "You've spent two weeks not being fine about this."

"Well, I've been fine about this since day one, actually," Ianto admitted.

Rory smiled at her. "I've been on solid ground since that Margaret Thatcher revelation."

"Clara," Amy put in. "You and I need to have a chat. One of those chats where I do this odd thing called 'apologise' and th—"

"Jack, you just hit him in the face!" Clara interrupted, confusion swirling in her head. "Were you not listening to what he's just said?"

"Of course I was. So were you. You're just…"

Jack pressed his fingertips into the edge of the desk, looking at John. "Your friends…" he frowned, voice quiet. "Eddie. Hamish. You don't deserve them."

"I know," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

"You don't deserve my friend, either."

John nodded in agreement, staring at the floor.

"I don't want to be like you," Jack swallowed, wiping a hand over his mouth and regarding him with something that might have been both curiosity and regret. "This week, last week... Based on what you just said, I've been… It looks like I've been turning into you. I don't want to do what you did to your friends. I never again want to put Clara in a position where she's being forced by me to do something because of my selfishness. I'm very, very lucky to have my friends. And Ianto. Especially Ianto."

"Clara, the four of us had a rather productive little meeting yesterday evening," Ianto explained. "The Intervention of the Passive Boyfriends, as we called it."

"You obviously weren't invited," Rory remarked, gazing across to her. "Turns out we can achieve a lot when Jack and Amy shut up for a few moments."

"Basically, I got everyone to agree with me," Ianto emphasized. "Although I did get a bit worried when the punching started, love. We didn't agree on that."

"A blatant breach of the Passive Boyfriend rules," Rory chastised lightly.

"Well, I didn't expect _this_ shit to happen, did I?" Jack growled. "Didn't expect to be holding a Sacrament of Confession. That came out of fucking nowhere. I'm still not completely in control of myself either. I think if I get too close, I'd do again. Still… I've got you keeping me in line, Rory. Almost. No one panic."

Jack breathed out, weary hands pulling through the front of his dark hair. "I'm so tired," he sighed. "That was a bit exhausting. And frankly, I'm sick of hearing you two idiots speak. Clara, we're going to just leave you in the very capable hands of someone who, now, sounds more fucked up than you are.

Jack's voice lowered again, gentle. "This is yours, Clara. It's your decision. And when you properly decide what you would like to do about this ridiculous situation, the four of us are going to be right here, with available fists and ears, and _hopefully_ with rational thinking, and always with love. Whenever you need it. It hurts. It's so very cruel. And I am—" Jack breathed out again, eyes soft, imploring. "I am so, so sorry this has happened. That Danny is gone. That we've spent all these weeks fighting instead of listening to one another. So, it's all yours. As it should have been from the beginning."

"I think I've fulfilled my part of this deal now," Michelle interrupted again, standing up and crossing her arms.

Jack looked towards her, lifting a hand to his head in acknowledging salute before gazing to the bright window outside to finish. "Yes," he murmured. "That's us, then. That's… us. Did I do a good job?"

"What I've enjoyed most about this whole thing, Jack," Ianto said, speaking before the inevitable end. "Is that you've now managed to swing it back around to make this all about you."

Jack began laughing, eyes closing while he propped his chin up with his fist. "I really love you," he sighed into the microphone, his reply saturated with warmth. "We should get married sometime."

"Maybe. How much money do you make a year?"

"Enough so I can buy you three boats. Or as many boats as you want. I will buy you all the boats in the world."

"I will be the boat king."

 _"I_ want to be the boat king," Jack frowned, tapping his wooden spoon slowly on the desk. "Captain Jack."

"Hmm. I don't think I actually even like boats all that much. Last time I was sea-sick."

"When? I didn't know that. Lucky you mentioned this _before_ I legally handed you my soul. No husband of mine is going to have a weak disposition on a boat."

"You could always… cheat on me in a few years if you were still feeling annoyed about it."

Jack chuckled, smile broadening the sides of his mouth. "I like a bit of edgy material. Think you've been spending too much time around Clara."

He took a deep breath and then looked around the room. "Anyone… anyone else here have something they would like to confess to the nation? For the sake of… balance."

"I really hate the fucking government," Amy sighed, regretful.

"Right!" Jack exclaimed immediately in a conclusive yell. "And that brings us to the end of the show for today! Thank you so much for tuning in, it's been a real pleasure having you all on board this train with us—"

"I thought you were a boat king now," Rory interjected.

"Look, we've been putting way too much thought into these damn metaphors, Rory," he growled, throwing the spoon in his direction. "I pride myself on straight-talking."

"Calm down," Rory smirked, avoiding the flying object.

"That is an excellent idea," Jack expressed, humour rushing into his tone.

Amy started laughing. "I agree. _Calm down."_

Jack kicked his chair back and laughed, bringing the microphone with him. "It's fine, it's fine, it's fine! It's all going to be fine. Calm down."

"Calm down!" Ianto yelled down the line.

Jack cackled. "It's all going to be _all right!"_

"We're all going to be so fine," Rory grinned.

"Once the two of you have calmed down," Jack smiled, eyes glittering, sending his gaze between Clara and John. "You'll realise it's all going to be okay. Fucking idiots. God, you're both so stupid." He took a deep breath and smiled slightly at Clara. "Right, glad we've cleared all that up. If anyone else is interested in my services hosting an unqualified therapy session, _please_ contact me at Jack at something dot something. I could do a series. A Radio 4 series. That would be good, wouldn't it?"

"Jack," Michelle growled, frowning, insistent again.

"Yes, yes, yes, I'm going, I'm going. You know me, like hearing myself speak. So! To all of you listening, I sincerely hope you have the most wonderful afternoon. A properly brilliant day. I'm Jack Harkness, this is Radio 2, thank you for _listening,_ thank you for being a part of what we've made here, for Saturday and every day before."

Rory began fading in the corresponding track, leaving Jack's mic up as the spoken verse ended, waiting for the final—

"Afternoon!"

Jack's usual yelling sign-off sounded out in conclusive farewell as he slammed his fist into the desk before he was switched off entirely in their perfectly practiced way, and the studio filled with John's immortal song, his deep, iconic tones washing through the room. Rory turned the volume right down and stood up, relinquishing control from the desk.

At the door, Michelle said something she didn't hear and exited while Donna murmured in John's ear. She put a hand on his shoulder and then left, joining Michelle outside. Clara watched them walk past the glass window and then disappear. John covered his eyes with his fingers. Faint but noticeable, his hand trembled.

Jack came around the desk towards her, his expression gentle and kind as she stood up. He put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in as Rory joined them. They put their heads together as three.

"It's been good, right?" Jack murmured, smiling. "This little omni-shambles we've had going on."

"Not a bad run," Rory smiled back.

"The best, I would think," Jack continued. He met Clara's gaze. "My beautiful friend. Go and… be angry now. Or… don't. Up to you." He grinned, glancing at Rory. "Good at this, aren't I?"

"Perfect," Rory replied. He tilted her head towards him and kissed the top of her hair. Jack did the same and then frowned curiously at her. "Still haven't grown, Oswald. We must all be like giants."

Her friends let her go, making their exit and leaving her alone with a man she had known for fourteen days, and with the added—if necessary—weight of having to make her own decisions.


	19. Facts

**Chapter 19: Facts**

* * *

In theory, it was all very well to leave a decision to the only person rightfully able to make it. However, in reality, Clara's capability to actually even consider entering into a decision-making process was very low. Her thoughts began blurring together as she tried to focus on what had just happened. Elusive, swirling fragments of information meandered through her mind. Overwhelmingly so, she was simply just tired. And her head, it appeared, didn't have a fucking clue as to what was going on. Too tired, too stressed, too exhausted. She gave up on it and looked instead for some innate reflex to use, something to give her an inclination for an action that was a little more proactive than just standing still and blankly staring at the glass of water in front of her. She felt a little relief as she realised it was quite an easy discovery.

Trailing fingers lightly across the dark wood, Clara walked slowly around the desk. John had his elbows on the surface, hands pressed over his eyes, trembling. Reaching him, she slid her hand over the back of his neck, thumb sliding into his hair and leant down to put her head beside his.

"What a mess you are," she murmured into his ear.

She reached across with her foot and rolled Jack's chair towards her so she could sit down. She caressed him with her thumb for a few moments and then slowly brought her hand away as she leaned back. "Did you know that for most of the nineteenth century it was believed life existed on Mars because some Italian astronomer saw some too-straight-to-be-accidental lines through the telescope?"

John nodded very slightly into his hands.

"Shit. Okay. What about… Did you know you would have to take around 14,500 breaths on Mars to get the equivalent amount of oxygen as one Earth breath?"

He shook his head quickly, staring at the table between his fingers.

"I looked up a bunch of facts the other day so I could impress you with my space knowledge. I liked that one. My initial intention was to memorise something interesting about ice types but I got so bored looking at the screen I almost passed out."

It was very possible he might have very possibly smiled. His face was a little too covered for her to be certain.

"This is what I think we should do now," she said quietly, taking cue from the helpful innate reflexes she'd just discovered. "Is Louis out the front?"

John nodded into his hands.

"Okay. We're going to go outside and wander through… whatever the hell is outside. We'll get in the car, and then you need to take me to your house. We shouldn't be in this fish-tank room. All right?"

He looked through his fingers at her and then nodded again, a vague, absent motion. He didn't look fully present in the situation.

The studio doors took them into the studio corridor which was full of people, both staff and guests and whoever else was around to listen to the broadcast and gawk at the spectacle through the glass. The crowd parted quietly as they walked forward in some strange two person procession. Clara punched the button for the lift. John looked at the floor as they descended, more interested in whatever the ground had to offer than anything around him, including her. Reaching the main entrance, Clara paused, taken aback at the size of the awaiting media.

"Harry," she murmured, turning to the security desk on their left. "We might need some assistance here."

Harry. Technically, if she had wanted to track back through the list in order to place culpability for everything that had occurred in the last two weeks, she probably would have arrived on this young man. She almost laughed.

Bright eyed but concerned, baby Henry VIII pointed through the foyer. "Do you want to go out the back?"

Clara glanced at John's fixed gaze out the glass, about to suggest they take the advice, changing her mind about an advance through _that._

"No," John expressed suddenly with force. "Out the front… like everyone does."

The waiting frenzy greeted them with unrestrained vigor. Clara grimaced as they were pounced upon. This was a game. A cruel game. Ideally, the three of them should have been able to walk forward and the crowd would part, letting them through. On a smaller scale, that would probably have been the result, but the masses allowed for well-practiced tactics to be implemented. Purposely blocked in their forward motion, the only way through was being physically willing to push past the photographers, who in cycles, remained adamant to step in front of them and create a barrier. Harry did his best at making a path, but unpracticed it was clearly difficult. He could only do so much by himself and they could only edge forward slowly through the wall of light and sound. Clara barely heard what they were shouting, finding it difficult to pick out individual questions. Once again she found herself thinking about how excessive this all was. No one should be _this_ interested.

John returned his gaze to the ground and she could tell he was beginning to panic. Not from the actual frenzied surroundings but more from the fact that his tense posture looked like he wanted to grab her in some instinctive form of protection but was now completely frozen with the idea of doing so. On the other hand, she was beginning to feel the same way—except without the frozen part. She breathed out through her teeth, grimacing, wondering just how much worse she could make this day by ending up back at the police station. It almost seemed fitting.

To her relief, Louis appeared suddenly, shoving his way past with unconcerned enthusiasm that well surpassed Harry's more tentative measures. A dangerous grin that didn't reach his eyes was plastered on his face. He grabbed John's shoulders and then his chin when he didn't respond to his presence, forcing him to look up. "All right?" Clara managed to hear him growl. "Bit rough. Almost there."

Louis didn't hold back. Twisting to the side, he put the palm of his hand into the shoulder of a photographer, shoving him backwards, hard. "Fuck off, mate," he snarled, raising his hand to point. "Touch him again I'll batter you. Smash your fucking toy while I'm at it. Fuck off."

The flashes from the cameras distorted her vision. She blinked through them as Louis put his arm around her shoulder, directing her forward. "Nice to see you, Clara," he said into her ear over the shouting. "Think we can take them all on?" He clenched his fist quickly and gave her a smile before helping her to move.

"Oi, ginger!" Louis called forward to Harry. "Trick is to remember they're not fucking human. Use your elbows, mate."

Clara tried to drag her head out of the parallel sixteenth century, amused again at the idea that they were now being simultaneously escorted by both a Harry _and_ a Louis—

 _Shit._

Red coat. This person belonged solely in the twenty first century. In front of her John froze, staring. _She_ was asking him something, indistinct to Clara's hearing from the removed position. She'd forgotten. Clara watched John frown and then take a slow step to place himself directly in front of the woman. With calm assurance, so she knew exactly what he was doing, he reached and took her hand, slowly lowering the audio recorder to point at the ground. He placed his other on her shoulder and then leant forward, pressing his mouth beside her ear. Current circumstances aside, it would have been quite an intimate position. Sharon was impassive as he spoke, her face not shifting from the unemotional display. As John drew back she continued staring at him with the same indifference until he turned into Harry, motioning them forward, and then she locked her eyes with Clara. Her expression changed. Fury rippled across her face. She made an attempt to move towards her but John was faster, stepping in front of her, blocking her immediate path. Louis took his cue and pushed Clara through the last few yards to the car before John followed her into the back seat, slamming the door quickly behind them.

"Fucking hell!" Louis exclaimed in bewilderment, starting the vehicle instantly, shifting into gear but pulling away from the curb slowly as not to cause any accident. Clara was impressed with his control, glad she wasn't driving. She wasn't sure she would have been that careful.

"Kensington?" Louis looked in the rear view mirror at John. He was unresponsive, staring out of the window into London. Louis' gaze switched to her and she nodded slowly.

The drive took half an hour. John didn't remove his fixed gaze, hands on his lap, body like stone. He barely even blinked, just stared vacantly through the glass. Clara watched him for awhile and then looked out of her own window, resting her head against the frame.

Louis twisted in his seat as he pulled up to the house, grabbing John's knee for attention as Clara removed her seat belt. "I still like you, Ardy," he frowned, looking annoyed and then dropping his voice to a mutter. "Even though you said I wouldn't. Love you, actually. Don't forget." He slapped John's knee and turned away, switching on the stereo and turning the volume up to an excessive level. A hurry-up-and-get-out if she'd ever seen one.

John led the way slowly into his house, pausing in the entrance to take off his coat and boots. Her coat was… still in the office, but she removed her boots with him before she was met with a helpless look that needed direction.

"Upstairs." She sighed and then raised her eyebrows at him. "Show me the view."

His bedroom, without surprise, was another beautifully elegant space that matched the rest of his house. Light walls contrasted with dark frames. Minimally decorated, but certainly not lacking in subtle grandeur. Further doors she guessed led to an ensuite and a wardrobe were set into one side of the wall. Books were stacked on the floor by a comfortable-looking seat beside the window, some open and half read, others being used as a precarious perch for a tiny pot containing a tiny cactus. The bedside table held only a digital clock, and oddly, a box of matches. The bed was pristine, either unslept in or recently made. The former, by the looks of him.

Sunlight streamed through the large window that overlooked the expanding vista of Kensington Park. Clara walked over to it, exhaling and touching her head against the glass. This was a hell of a view. She could see people strolling through the curving, sinuous pathways. A group of kids were kicking a football in a loose circle in the distance. The sun on her skin was like a gentle caress and she felt pleasantly calm in the peaceful surroundings. However—

"Right," Clara swallowed, turning back to face him. 'What do we do now?"

John didn't reply, his impassive gaze continuing absently.

"Bit more yelling? Sex? Tree documentary? All three?"

She looked back away to the window. Below stretched an impressive garden. A proper back lawn, grass cut to perfection, high fence enclosing the attractive space. There was an orange football abandoned in the middle. Louis, maybe. Although, she could imagine the man behind her kicking a ball repeatedly against that fence, brows furrowed and taking a serious amount of frustration out on an inanimate object. A large, overbearing evergreen tree grew in one corner. She wondered what it was, considering perhaps the documentary should be the highest priority on the list of possible choices for the rest of the afternoon.

"All three together," she muttered, tapping her head back against the glass. "I'm too tired to know what to do. What do you want to do?"

John was silent, remaining fixed and frozen in his spot in the middle of the room.

"Have you forgotten how to speak now?" she asked gently, smiling at him as he swallowed but didn't reply.

He nodded eventually when she persisted for a response. "Yeah," he whispered.

"That's okay." She turned back around slowly, staring down to the closest open book. She picked it up. Something about plate tectonics and the _oceanic lithosphere._ She almost laughed. "Is this interesting?"

John nodded again.

"Come here?"

He walked towards her, stopping just within touching distance. Clara held it up. "Tell me something?"

"It's about—" He cleared his throat, swallowing. "About theories on how plates move."

"Mmm," she smiled. "You're right. Very interesting." She closed the heavy book, trapping the covers between her hands.

"No bookmark," she announced, dropping it back onto the chair. "Good luck finding that page again." She smiled at him. "Are you impressed with my revenge techniques?"

She wasn't sure he was really listening. He just stared at her, blinking slowly as if he were in a drifting daze. Very carefully, making sure her tone didn't have a shred of accusation in it, she addressed him quietly. "Who's been in here?"

He didn't understand, disoriented. She reworded for clarity. "Who's been in your bed?"

His eyes flickered past her pointing hand. He swallowed. "Just me." Shaking his head, he stared at the ground, mumbling something she couldn't decipher.

"I can't hear you, John," she said gently.

He cleared his throat and repeated his mumbled words. "You're the first person I've invited to my home."

Clara nodded slowly. She thought she'd already known the answer. Out of all the questions she could have been asking, that one was probably not the most appropriate. Still, proximity mixed with anger seemed to make it the most pressing.

"Trust me?" She held his gaze until he nodded slowly. "Good. You should. Bit weird, but… can you take off your shirt? Please?"

He blinked in confusion but then followed her order without any question, pulling off his jumper and t-shirt in one and dropping them to the floor. Taut muscles rippled beneath his skin, flexing as he straightened. He blinked as she stepped up to him and then closed his eyes, surrendering to whatever she intended.

The top of her head only just breached his shoulder and she smiled to herself. She probably did need to grow a little bit more. She looked at his chest. White skin that was almost transparent matched the pale hue in his face. If he lived somewhere that wasn't cloud covered three hundred and sixty four days a year, his skin would no doubt burn instantly. A light scattering of hair covered his chest, sternum moving in deep but less than regular breaths. He was composed of sharp angles and lean muscle, slim, but was nowhere near as wiry as would be assumed above his clothing. _Steel,_ yes, but instead of the cold effulgence of metal, he continued to radiate heat like an open fire. She pressed the tips of her fingers into his chest and then trailed them downward, leaving fading red imprints on his skin. The muscles in his abdomen tensed as she paused. Her eyes traced his upper body.

There was something of sublimity about him and she couldn't decide what was causing it. That _fact_ she'd decided on Day One didn't really feel like a fact anymore. Maybe it never had been _just_ a fact. Even in the police car, she'd probably already known how taken she was by him. She looked at people all the time and thought they were attractive, or beautiful, or alluring. But this, _him,_ was something else entirely. Frowning, she stumbled over the concept of something she couldn't properly explain to herself. Every single part of him was utterly breathtaking. Every flaw, every subtle inconsistency was simply rendered into sheer radiance. Like she was just blinded by something ineffable. She had never been so completely enamoured with _anybody_ as much as she was with him. That was an undeniable fact.

 _Fucksake._

Clara followed the curves of his body with light fingers, shoulders meeting arms, the lines of his ribs, chest to abdomen. She ran her thumb along the elastic waistband of his pants poking through from above his black jeans, and then stepped around him, hands drifting on his side. There were marks on his back—her marks—and she was slightly impressed she'd managed that without actually having any nails. She traced her fingers over them, frowning, following the light red lines that were yet to fade. Her eyes took in every mark, all the tiny inconsistencies on his pale skin.

She came slowly back to his front, taking his wrist and brought his right hand in front of her for the same inspection. His eyes were still closed, head lowered, chin near his chest. Opening his curled fingers, she stretched them over hers, the intermittent shake in his hands becoming obvious again as she held him. Definitely hands of a musician, she smiled to herself. Hands of genius, apparently. His nails were still as immaculate as they had been in the holding cell and she frowned in annoyance as she compared them to hers. Eyes on his palm, she followed the broken lines stretching to either side like fraying imprints of string. She smiled to herself again with wry amusement, wondering if he'd appreciate an unqualified palm-reading on his love life. Probably not. Instead she trailed her index finger slowly along them and then moved to his wrist, following the weaving veins beneath translucent skin that eventually disappeared into his forearm.

Upwards in her attention, she met the pronounced muscles formed in his upper arms, flexing a little as her fingers drifted over sensitive areas. Her brows creased again. He was too slim to warrant the word _sturdy,_ but somehow he inhibited all the definition of the word, strong and muscular, resolute and unyielding.

Clara pushed him backwards with a gentle hand to his chest, indicating her want for him to sit. He leant back against the window ledge, the slight drop allowing them to be the same height. She stepped between his legs and brought her hands to his head. Pushing her hand his through his hair, she tilted him to the right so she could look at the side of his skull. The scar started just before his hairline on his temple. She ran her thumb over it, parting his hair with her fingers and tracing the line carefully to his ear. It must have been deep. Stitches, definitely. She picked out the black in his curls, far more prevalent than she had thought. It was an almost a half and half split, yet its perceiving colour was somehow still dominated by silver.

The supporting hand on his cheek was suddenly wet. Gently, she tilted his head back, raising his chin. Tears leaked from his closed eyes, escaping quickly and making their irrefutable tracks. She touched her fingers to his cheeks to brush them away. Fingers like feathers, she grazed the mark where Jack had punched him. He flinched very slightly but didn't pull away. With the utmost delicacy she placed the tips of her fingers at the side of his mouth.

"You're so beautiful," she murmured, a little lost in him. "Do you know that? I don't think you realise." She ran her thumb along his bottom lip. "In the police car, I couldn't stop staring at you."

His eyes blinked open. The opalescent blues and greens blurred in the glittering pools of water.

"Is that really how you felt when I looked at you?"

"Look," he corrected hoarsely, swallowing and trying to blink away the wet in his eyes. "Not looked. When you look at me."

"What about now?"

He nodded. "Always."

"Even when I'm angry at you?"

"Even when you're angry at me," he repeated quietly.

"Okay." Clara sighed, trailing her fingers down his uninjured side to wipe more tears. She leant forward, putting her mouth on his ear. "You're making it very hard for me to feel good about being angry at you. With all this… crying and trembling going on."

She breathed him in for a moment, his clean, warm scent making her thoughts grow distant. Drawing back, she smiled at him softly. Those grey, grey eyes stared back at her, blues and greens swimming together while fighting for dominance, neither holding the greater position for very long around the endless centre of black.

"It's okay, John," she murmured, stroking his hair. "It's not the end of the world or anything. It's just a… strange moment. Do you think we both need some… perspective, maybe? You've been reading a book literally about how the earth shifts. Relatively, isn't that more fascinating and important than this?"

"Subjective."

"Mmm. Suppose. I've been trying for six weeks to have some perspective. Difficult, isn't it." She sighed and then ran her thumb under his left eye. "Did you sleep last night?"

"No," he whispered.

"Didn't think so." She smiled at him again but he only returned an expression of complete defeat. The sun behind cast him in a strangely captivating ethereal aura of golden light. She had to blink away the effect.

"I genuinely have absolutely no idea what to do now. What do you want to do?"

"It doesn't matter what I want," he replied quietly after a moment of silence.

"Yes it does."

Once again, he didn't offer any sort of reply. Clara swore under her breath, exasperated. Not at him, but at the situation. "We need to do something, John. I can't just… leave. I don't want to leave you here by yourself like this."

She put a hand on his cheek, thumb under his chin and tilted his head up so he was forced to look at her. "Want to read me something?"

His eyes flickered with confusion.

"A book, I mean. Out loud. I like listening to you speak. Not sure if anyone has ever told you this," she smiled, "but you have a lovely voice."

John swallowed. "What book?"

Clara turned to the stack by the chair. "Mmm. Any book." She pulled away from him and crouched to scan through the selection. "Here. _Introduction to the Fundamentals of Atmospheric Acoustic Physics._ Christ. This?"

"Okay," he murmured, taking it from her hands.

She pointed at the bed. "In the sun?"

He wasn't doing well with making decisions so she reworded instead to an order. "In the sun."

John hesitated but then lay down, half propped up by the pillows, head against the board and long legs stretched out in front of him. Clara slid across the bed to curl into his side, not bothering with any subtlety of intention, just putting her head on his shoulder and her free hand over his chest.

The book opened and he began reading the obscure text. From the first sentence she understood absolutely nothing and she was pretty sure there was no way he could have a shred of understanding as to what this was about. The author most likely didn't have a clue what he or she had written, either. His reading voice was quiet and wavering at first, but grew steadier as he went on.

Clara kept her eyes open, savouring the last of the afternoon sun seeping in through the window. Her skin was warm. She could feel the arcane sentences stringing together beneath his chest in her ear. Whatever this nonsense book was about, the author had at least done a fantastic job at selecting a wide range of words with the letter R included. English words from a Scottish mouth. Possibly one of the empire's greatest achievements.

Absently she trailed her fingers across his skin, drawing random shapes and patterns, watching the temporary marks transition and fade from white to red to white.

His esoteric words wavered as her hand slipped lower, tracing lines across his stomach. The breath in her ear was not quite normal, shortened and slightly erratic, and she could feel him consciously attempting to even it out.

"Shut up," she growled at him, grabbing the book out of his hands and dropping it to the floor. "Why the fuck are telling me about this?"

They were quick. She wasn't really thinking, and she didn't think he was either. It was just a rush of final energy, bodies responding to each other's heat and proximity. Their clothes were gone in what seemed like seconds and with uninhibited urgency they pulled each other down, desperate and wanting, allowing this because nothing had been decided, still yet in their strange, transitory moment. She kissed him and he flinched, the movement affecting his jaw, but he persisted anyway, not caring or then not noticing, his concentration elsewhere. She equaled his vehement, rough drive into the all-consuming space of unmatched bliss and simply enjoyed his perfect body in their imperfect situation.

After, he rolled away from her, leaving the bed. Bathroom, perhaps. Her eyes flickered and closed, body pending within the final moments of sun touching upon her skin and the residue of unabated, circling pleasure. The bed dipped and she felt his weight return, sliding to her side and pressing against her, his mouth in the curve of her shoulder, arms encasing her. That need to stay, to breathe against each other and share in their lingering connection remained, keeping them together as the sun disappeared and the afternoon evolved, as ever, into evening. They missed the change, lost in another moment and asleep in the next.


	20. Fourteen Days

**Chapter 20: Fourteen Days**

* * *

Warm, warm, warm. In her ears, she could hear rain, the soft patter on a roof above her. England's weather was a mess. Not once had it listened to her advice for improvement. Asleep in the sun, awake in the rain. Didn't matter though really. More importantly, she was incredibly warm. Too warm, probably. Her eyes flickered open. The duvet had been folded over her. Clara found herself tightly wrapped in a cocoon of feathers and sheets.

The curtains at the window were drawn and a dim lamp on the other side of the room cast just enough light so that she could see. Her muscles ached. In fact, her entire body ached, but in a pleasing, satisfying sort of way as she stretched and then got up, testing the solidness of the floor before standing without the support of her hand on the bed. Blood rushed around her head at the newly vertical position.

Her clothes were folded in a neat pile beside one of the doors. Guessing it was the bathroom she turned the handle and entered, unable to stop from groaning at the sight. She leant her head against the frame. Marble floors offset with white walls and dark framing greeted her eyes. Luxurious was barely adequate to attach to the state of this goddamn room. This was heading into the transcendental realms of existence.

There was a deep bath set beneath an extension of the window in his room, no doubt overlooking the park. It could easily hold two— _probably three_ —people. In the opposite corner, an open glass shower made for… _six_ graced the other side. She stared at the bath with barely restrained longing, deciding she'd never wanted to use something so much in her life. Resisting and showering instead, using his soap— _lemongrass, of course, what else_ —she stood under the constant stream of pounding water, willing the heat and darting jets to wake her up properly. She felt a little hazy and rather than rested, it was as if she'd just skipped ahead a few hours in time simply by being unconscious.

Redressing, she once again found herself in a situation lacking an appropriate amount of clothing. The _other_ door in his room was too alluring not to examine and she wasn't surprised to find it opened into a walk-in wardrobe. She breathed out as she walked inside, stunned again at the luxury of the environment. She trailed her fingers over the rows of tailored jackets and shirts. Various sets of boots were lined on one side, all black, only one set that might have possibly gotten away with a very-dark-grey characterization. He was certainly very neat and meticulous in some respects. Boots lined perfectly in their pairs, shirts and jackets arranged by his limited shades of colour. He scattered books and paper, but everything else in his house seemed to be tidy and conscientiously placed.

It didn't take long to find the stack of jumpers. She unfolded the first one and pulled it over her head, smiling as the holes exposed her white shirt underneath. The sleeves far exceeded her fingertips.

Song drifted up the staircase as she opened the bedroom door to make her way downstairs. Acoustic guitar met her ears, quiet and melodic in a minor key. The living room was dark, lit only by a healthy fire. John was cross legged on the carpet, head tilted to his chest, the fingers on his right dancing over the strings while the other quietly shifted across the frets. She watched him play for a minute, engrossed in the scene and the dark, meditative music, until he paused suddenly and looked up, head turning as if he'd seen her from the corner of his eye.

"Hey," he murmured, ceasing his attentions on the instrument immediately and laying it face up on the floor beside him.

"Twice you've left me to wake up by myself," Clara said quietly, smiling as she sat down in front of him, mirroring his cross-legged position.

"I couldn't decide what to do," he replied, frowning. "I didn't... I did not want you to _not_ want me there, so I thought that—"

"Shhh," she cut in, assuring at his awkward attempt to explain himself. "I'm not exactly in the habit of falling asleep during the afternoon. You just made me tired, I guess."

He didn't reply, just kept his eyes on her as the fire sent its erratic patterns across his body. Hers too, she supposed. He looked better than he had a few hours ago, still tired but his unsteady, sickly demeanour had dispersed and his familiar composure had replaced it.

"What were you playing?" she murmured to break the lingering silence.

"Oh, um," he swallowed, shy, glancing at the guitar. "Just writing. I make up things and then if I can remember them the next day, they've probably got potential. Would you like some dinner? Ah… Donna came around earlier while you were asleep. She made some sort of soup for us. Want some? You haven't eaten since lunch. If you had lunch."

Clara nodded slowly, the flames distracting her. "Um… yes. Thanks."

She made to stand up, but he held out his hand to stop her.

"No, stay there. I'll bring it to you." He uncrossed his legs and got to his feet. "Listen to me use the microwave."

She watched him disappear into the dark and then reappear under the low lights in the kitchen across the room. The dancing flames on reflecting wood caught her attention. She ran tentative fingers up the neck of his guitar to the head, the steel strings pressing lightly under her fingertips.

 _Martin & Co._

Her guitar knowledge was less than adequate, but the craftsmanship on the instrument was too exquisite not to notice. The body was mahogany maybe, or… well, it could have been anything. Wood wasn't particularly a specialist subject of hers—

 _Tree documentary._

—but it was something dark with a speckled, sinuous grain and glossy with finish that highlighted the flames beside her. Her fingers circled around the tuning pegs— _tuning pegs?_ —and then followed the ridges of the frets. With the most gentle of touches, she plucked one of the outer strings, making it discreetly sound out.

John put a bowl down carefully on the hearth and stepped over the guitar, resuming his cross-legged position in front of her as she murmured thanks.

"Want to know how much that's worth?" he asked quietly, indicating to the instrument as she flattened her hand on the strings to stop the lingering sound. "You'll like this."

She nodded, tearing her eyes away from the patterns the flames were creating on the dark wooden body.

"Lean forward," he instructed softly, doing the same himself so he could put his mouth next to her ear. His warm breath brushed across her skin like a delicate caress before he spoke.

"Fifty thousand pounds," he whispered.

Clara's mouth dropped open, her hand retreating away from the wooden neck in alarm before she met his glittering eyes in both horror and astonishment. He pulled away from her and picked up his bowl, a smile curving the edges of his mouth.

"Probably even more now that I've had my hands on it."

"Oh my god," she breathed.

"I didn't buy it," he assured her. "They gave it to me. I'm an ambassador. Or was one. I think it meant they wanted me to say 'I like this guitar'."

"Mr Martin gave you a fifty thousand pound guitar for basically _nothing?"_

"Mr Martin." He grinned with clear amusement. "Yeah. I suppose he did."

"Do you use that on stage?"

Another smile flickered over his thoughtful features, softer, curving his mouth just at the corners this time as he looked at the instrument. "No. I, ah… I'm more particular to the electric variety for the band."

Clara paused, considering. "I should probably know that by now."

He shook his head slowly, the smile lingering on his face as he traced his fingers down the frets. "It's so beautiful," he murmured. "Incomparable. Martins can achieve a perfect balance between the bass and trebles if you know what you're doing. Sounds like..." He plucked one of the strings, listening to the resonating note. "... Well, that sounds like B, but _that_ sounds like…" The description trailed away, his frown telling her he didn't quite have a word to describe it.

"Do you know what you're doing?" She meant it as a joke but he answered seriously, fixing his eyes on her.

"I know what I'm doing." There wasn't a shred of ego or self-awareness in his tone, but it was a contrast from the diffidence he seemed to consistently inhibit. "If there's one thing I know how to do properly, it is how to play this guitar. I can make it… _sing."_

His eyes burned with silent determination, an imperative insistence that took her aback somewhat and left her feeling like he was trying to express something very important, and very private. But then he smiled, soft again and a little bashful. Dropping his attention back to his bowl, he left her gaze completely and focused on his meal, eyes not raising again.

They ate in silence, although in her head, Clara silently praised Donna's culinary abilities. She hadn't eaten all day.

"You know how in your bathroom… there's a bath," she started, putting down the bowl once done.

"Clue's in the name," he murmured absently, and then looked up to her, curious.

"Can I use it?"

"Use it?"

She had no idea why he looked confused, his brows furrowing slightly, mouth parting.

"Yeah. For a bath. With water."

"Oh," he smiled. "Of course you can. Yes. Definitely. Put lots of water in it. Hot water. It has these little jet things you can turn on. Like a spa."

She was too busy imagining the unfolding scenario with indistinct bliss to be amused at his unnecessary rambling.

"Sorry, your hair is just wet. From the shower."

She smiled. "I don't have a bath at home. Always wished I did."

"No. Well. You're more than welcome to use mine."

Clara nodded and unfolded her legs, standing and trying to summon the courage to ask her next question. Four or five hours of unhelpful and nonrestorative sleep had changed nothing in terms of a decision. She reworded a second before it left her mouth, a suggestion rather than a query.

"You should come with me," she swallowed, forcing herself to keep her gaze on the top of his head.

His eyes raised to meet her in surprise. "In… In the bath?"

"In the bath."

He stared, unreadable now in expression.

"If you want to," she added, trying not to blush, which was not an easy achievement. She was glad of the lack of light.

"I want to."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Neither of them moved. She watched how the lambent fire was touching his hair, turning his chaotic curls into a golden mess upon his head. She felt herself start to go weak with longing. He was so beautiful.

"After you," he murmured, eyes flickering toward the staircase.

He followed her upstairs and into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him. Clara stepped towards the bath, twisting the taps, watching the rush of water hit the white base.

"View's good during the day," he told her in a susurrant mumble as he hovered beside her. "But you can sort of see the park now when there's no reflection."

"Can I see?"

"I'd need to turn the lights off."

"Turn the lights off then."

He walked to the door and flicked the switches, casting the room into darkness before her eyes adjusted and the lights became apparent in the distance.

"Sort of see," she murmured in agreement, noting the tall lamp posts running in lines across the illuminated walkways.

The gushing water drowned out his reply, too quiet to be detected properly. Together they waited at the edge, listening to the bath fill, steam rising to be taken into their lungs.

"I guess you should take off my clothes," he suggested and then added quickly for clarity—"I mean, I'll take off _my_ clothes, but you'll have to take off my clothes, too." He touched the sleeve of the jumper she was wearing briefly, missing her smile in the dark.

Only silhouettes and shadows remained distinct in the low light, but just the proximity of him getting undressed beside her made her heart begin to race. She pushed the thoughts away, not entirely successfully but enough to stop herself from letting them lead her actions.

The water felt incredible. There was something fundamental, _primal,_ about being submerged in complete heat. Her muscles relaxed instantly as it seeped into bones like a deep cleansing. She pushed herself back against the edge, water lapping at her chin. John followed her in, lowering himself down tentatively at the opposite end, inhaling through his teeth as he did so.

"This is very hot," he complained.

"It's literally a perfect temperature."

"Sure," he muttered. "If you're a native to living on the sun." He sat chest deep, arms still resting against the edges. "Skin's burning off," he said under his breath.

She laughed quietly at his grumbling, just able to see his outline through the dark as he succumbed to the heat.

"There's a species of ant in the Sahara Desert," he told her, "called the Sahara Desert ant. Naturally." He dipped an arm into the water. "They can sustain a body temperature of fifty degrees celsius. And surface temperatures of seventy. It's amazing."

She smiled, still aware he couldn't see. "I like how you know random things."

"I've just got a lot of random books."

"I've noticed." A pause. "You should come over here," she told him slowly, swallowing.

In the dark, she had no idea what he was thinking. Not that it was guaranteed she'd be able to read his expression, even if there was light enough to see.

"Okay."

He sliced through the water, sending small ripples that lapped against her shoulders. Keeping his distance still, he just hovered in the centre, not touching her. The inconsistency was confusing. Where he had been so confident and controlling— _the door_ — _the bench_ — _the bed_ —now he was hesitant and unsure, vulnerable in the face of this new state, this new territory between them.

"Do you… just want me to tell you what to do?" she asked carefully, preparing herself for an answer she didn't know what to do with.

"I think so," he replied finally, and she breathed out quietly in relief.

"Well," she swallowed, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. "You could sit beside me for starters."

He moved as she said, his shoulder brushing against hers and then the outside of his leg. She felt her body respond to him instantly, wanting to—

John dipped lower into the water and then ducked under completely for a few moments.

"I'm rubbish at holding my breath," he mumbled as he reemerged, shaking his head slightly and wiping at his eyes.

"What's your record," she asked to keep him talking.

"Three minutes."

"Really?"

"Mmm. In the sea. I actually almost drowned. So maybe that doesn't count."

She blinked, caught off-guard.

"When I was a child." He paused, not downcast in any way, just simply stating a fact. "I'm still quite scared of the water. Don't like swimming. But the bath is fine. See? I can reach the edge."

Christ. He was going to devastate her. Level with him, she found his mouth, kissing him softly while his fingers reached to the tiles. He didn't respond, surprise perhaps, and for a second she thought he was about to pull away. She bet him to it, drawing back in uncertainty.

"No, no, come back," he murmured quickly. A wet hand rose to her to cheek and he pressed his lips back into hers, opening her mouth.

Their kiss was slow and careful, tentative this time around his injury. He ran his tongue over her bottom lip, gradually growing in confidence. She _probably_ could have stayed like this forever, tasting him in this warm state, having his fingertips trail delicately over her cheeks and down her neck. The thought made her sigh slightly. She wasn't supposed to be in his house, wasn't supposed to have slept with him, wasn't supposed to have invited him to be lying naked beside her in his bath while she pressed into him harder, wanting him more, demanding his attention while her tongue explored his mouth.

He bit down gently on her lip and then she pulled back, needing to breathe. Their bodies had shifted and in a moment of impressive control, she sat between his legs instead, back against his chest, trying to relax and send her focus away from how he felt—hard, wanting, aroused because of her. Her mind began fighting a useless battle against her body. She had asked him in here, any resistance now was just a lingering residue. Flashes of heat spiked through her and she squeezed her eyes shut, needing to extend her attentions elsewhere. The feel of his fingers caressing over her stomach did nothing to help and she founding herself pressing back into him slightly, breath more short than she would have liked to admit. She slid her heels up, knees breaking the water and sent her perceptions to the cool air on exposed skin for distraction. It didn't last long. His left hand shifted, palm flat and gliding slowly up her arm, and then he slid fingers to the base of her neck, gently but insistently pushing her forward. He kneaded his thumbs into her shoulders, fingers digging into her muscles and she had to bite down on her tongue to stop herself from groaning. She propped her elbows against her knees and leant into her hands, palms pressing into her eyes as he massaged her into a state of disconnected bliss. Her focus honed into his touch, the world fading as he continued his attentions, movements that seemed to follow no particular path but were inherently rhythmic all the same.

Her body already weak with compliance, his fingers drifted down her arms, communicating his intentions to shift his caress forward and Clara found herself unintentionally swaying to close the small gap between their bodies, back pressing into his chest. She straightened her legs as his hands grasped around her hips, fingers digging softly into her flesh. A kiss was pressed into her ear. Another on her jaw, another on the side of her mouth. Light, lingering touches. He pulled his head back, lips leaving her skin so he could nudge his forehead into her neck.

His hands slid to her stomach and fire flashed through her, bringing with it a surge of heat that exceeded the temperature of the water. Her senses exploded. _Didn't stand a chance against him._ The thought amused her momentarily before filtering away as the heat of his uneven breath brushed across her skin and sent raw desire flooding through her veins, its tendrils gripping with ceaseless insistence. Heart pounding in her ears, the pattern of his breathing changed with hers. It almost physically hurt, how sharp it was when her chest tightened. She had never wanted anyone just as badly as she wanted him right now, in this moment, in this warm, safe state. What coherent thought remained with her she used to stem the impulse to whimper. She bit into her bottom lip, trying to breathe normally while his thumb drew a line on her waist.

 _Those fingers_ —

They slid between her legs and she pushed back hard into him, unable to stop herself as he touched her. He knew exactly what he was doing, again being able to read exactly what she wanted without her voice or instruction, perhaps just feeling and interpreting the way she moved and responded, or maybe that deeper _something_ that tapped into the inconceivable wandering on the outskirts of her thoughts. His fingers stroked her in steady rhythm, flexing and coercing her body to react. Short, uneven breath in her ear and his mutual arousal enhanced her climbing elevation as pleasure built in mounting waves. His left hand explored her body, fingertips digging into her flesh and sliding down the inside of thighs, travelling across her stomach and then curving around her breasts. She began to blank out from the pleasure. It was impossible to stay still. His palm flattened over her chest, holding her down in constraint as she moved against him. He hooked his feet around her ankles and forced her legs apart.

" _John,"_ she moaned through her teeth, helpless.

"I know," he breathed into her ear.

The palm on his left hand pressed into her brow, driving her head back hard into his shoulder. His mouth dropped and his tongue darted onto her exposed neck. Hot and wet, he drew circles on her skin, matching the administration of his fingers. She stopped breathing. Her right hand gripped the stone edge.

That was too much.

Ecstasy ruptured through her. She arched back, crying out, and he bit down gently into her neck, the small spark of pain from his teeth accentuating the release of pressure within her body. The world disappeared, dipping and sinking away in the fierce rush of pleasure.

Disoriented, she made to turn around to reciprocate, but he grabbed her wrists, sending her back into his chest, smoothing out her hands with his and then entwining their fingers.

"Relax, relax," he whispered, mouth against her ear. "This is for you. Just relax."

She did as he said, in no state to make her own decisions. Marvelling at the fading strength of emotion coursing through her mind, she noticed absently she couldn't quite think straight. Her body stopped following instructions, weakening in the aftermath. A kiss was pressed into her hair before her hands were let go and arms wrapped around her instead. Her breath stilled eventually, heart rate dropping slowly, every nerve in her body caressed into a state of bliss. Simply lying in his arms, she drifted into hazy oblivion.

"Clara," he murmured after an elusive time, soft and low.

She tried to hum a response to indicate she was listening but failed entirely. She liked how he said her name. It seemed to come from his chest, a low rumble. That benefit of having the letter R within the mouth of a Scot.

"I might be dehydrated now," came the following whisper. "Need water."

She managed to nod but made no attempt to move. She wasn't sure she was capable of it. He shifted, hands lifting her and then easing her head to rest gently against the edge so he could slide away.

The sound of a tap being turned on filtered into her ears. John groaned slightly in pleasure, rushing water satisfying him. What was left of her perception was distant, darkness calling her inwards and away, the conscious world almost done with her. She felt him get out of the warm but cooling water, the level dropping slightly on her shoulders. He must have crouched beside her, his soft hand grazing along the side of her jaw.

"You're asleep, darling," he muttered, thumb wiping gently across her cheek.

Some part of her recognised what he had just said, but it didn't sound like he was even aware he had even spoken.

 _I've known you for fourteen days._

She was too faraway to have rational thought dominate her mind. Instead, silent and docile in the heat, she simply just agreed with his words. He hooked his hands under her arms and brought her forward in coercion to stand. She struggled to lift her legs over the edge. She was weak, muscles like lead. He kept his arms around her, probably holding her up while she flooded her limbs with drifting demands to cooperate. Beneath her feet, the marble floor was unnaturally warm. Water slid from her skin and cooled in the humid air. Droplets clung helplessly for a fleeting existence before making tracks and momentary prints down her trembling body.

A thick towel was wrapped around her shoulders and she swayed, disorientated again. She wrestled with her mind to wake herself up, but it was too difficult without a truly valid incentive. Her thoughts blurred, wondering if it was it possible to fall asleep standing, and then wondering that if he didn't have his hands on her, if she would have collapsed. Her forehead touched to his chest, a solid, immovable presence.

"I'm going to carry you all fifteen steps to my bed."

She didn't understand the drifting whisper until she felt herself being lifted, an arm around her waist, the other at the back of her legs.

"Can walk by myself," she muttered thickly as her head pressed into his shoulder.

"Course you can."

She wanted to count the steps to see if he was accurate but didn't get past three, the rest of the numerical system failing her.

"Sit."

She sat, trying to give him a salute but discovering she didn't have access to her limbs anymore.

 _Yessir._

Her eyes flickered. The bedroom was just as dark as the bathroom and so she shut them again, fingers clenched firmly in the towel surrounding her. Just as she was about to succumb to gravity's tempting pull, she felt him in front of her, lifting the towel away. Naked in front of him, she considered being self-conscious, but it was dark and she couldn't bring herself to care through the haze. Cool material was pulled over head.

"I can dress myself."

"Okay," he murmured as he lifted one of her arms through a sleeve and then began on the other.

This was something of his. A t-shirt.

"Why're all your clothes black?" she mumbled, slurring.

"You'll find this is white, thank you very much," he replied quietly, and she could _hear_ him smiling in the dark. His gorgeous, soft mouth curving into that genuine, rare and unpracticed expression he had first given her in their holding cell.

"You're so beautiful," she told him for the second time that day. She hoped her words were coherent.

He didn't reply, just touched her cheek and then pressed hands into her shoulders to guide her backwards, directing her head to sink into a pillow, pulling her legs around to straighten her position, lifting sheets to rest their gentle weight over her body.

She wanted to think he was presuming in her willingness to let him sleep beside her. And perhaps he was thinking that too, but then again, here she was, knowing that if he hadn't pulled her into his chest, hadn't wrapped his arms protectively around her, didn't have his mouth pressing into the back of her neck or his legs intertwined with hers—then she would have woken herself up and proceeded to do everything in her power to let him know that was what she wanted.

 _How funny. I think Raleigh might have been a bit wrong._

Clara slipped unawares into perpetual blackness, and this time, just once, it kept its promises and stayed that way.


	21. Ghosts Retreat

**Chapter 21: Ghosts Retreat**

* * *

"Hi, Danny," Ianto said quietly before looking at Clara to pull a face. "Is it weird I'm talking to a headstone?"

She shrugged, smiling slightly. "Yeah. But carry on."

"Might just..." Her friend frowned, scrubbing his fingers over his chest and then exhaled in heavy defeat. "You stupid fucker," he sighed, bending to press his hand into the grass, testing how wet the ground was. He shrugged off his coat and dropped it to sit. Clara joined him, pulling her legs up to rest her elbows on her knees.

The cemetery was empty— _of alive people_ , she smiled to herself, mildly amused by the thought. Empty except for them. Herself and her very much alive friend. Neither had been here since the funeral. Someone had lain fresh flowers at the base of the stone. Something yellow and bright. If Danny had been given the option to pick a flower, it probably wouldn't have been these. She tried to guess, wondering the sort of thing he would have chosen in some bizarre situation he was capable of selecting the flora to decorate his own grave. Something a bit more subtle, she thought. But really, she had no idea. A situation had never arisen where she had needed to know his favourite flower. She looked around, expanding her sight and tried to name something with petals growing. _Daisies_ was all she could manage.

 _Can you please visit Danny with me tomorrow?_

Ianto had sent her the message the previous evening and Clara had called him just after seven in the morning once she had read it, knowing he was probably already awake because for reasons she had never managed to understand, he thought it appropriate to experience two versions of six o'clock during a twenty four hour period.

 _Let's go now. Sunrise at the graveyard. We can watch the ghosts retreat._

Clara had woken up in a warm encasing of _John._ Her back against him, his arm draped across her waist, legs tangled together. Carefully, as not to wake him, she had eased out of his bed and spent five minutes in the chair beside the window, just staring at his peaceful, sleeping form. She had dressed quietly, re-attiring in his jumper and walked downstairs, locating her phone. It was the only possession she had on her—bag and coat left forgotten in her office after their retreat from the studio. The amount of missed calls and messages was rather excessive. She ignored them all but for Ianto, wanting to leave, use these over-eight-hours-of-sleep to her advantage and give herself some space to think.

Unable to summon the courage to wake him, she had left a note on the table instead, explaining, well, _nothing,_ other than an indication she hadn't just walked out on him without a word.

— _I've taken your jumper._

She had given Ianto the address and what she hoped was the same code for the drive-in gate, and sat waiting on the doorstep, head tilted against the frame, watching the sky grow lighter above the opulent houses as the minutes ticked past.

"You've got no idea how much I want to hold down the horn and wake all these people up," Ianto had grinned at her as she climbed in the passenger seat.

"Their houses are probably all soundproof."

"Yeah, with money stuffed into the walls."

There was media at the gate, even at this early hour, snapping away with their cameras as their car passed, trying to peer inside. Ianto sent her a wry smile.

 _Fan club out early this morning, Clara. Can I put a coat over your face like they do in films?_

He didn't ask her anything, didn't talk about yesterday or badger her for any information. She was grateful, wanting only to look out the window and watch the city change as they drove west to the cemetery.

"I'm so angry at you." Ianto touched his fingers into the stone over Danny's name from his place on the ground, lowering his voice. "Why didn't you talk to me, mate? We could have…" He sniffed in the cold air. "Well, I don't know what we could have done. But maybe you could still be around to hear me yell at you a bit.

"Clara," he murmured, turning so his mouth was pressed into her shoulder. "The last thing I said to him was 'fuck off'."

"I know," she replied, swallowing. "Me too."

"Maybe we should cut back on all the swearing," he suggested.

She returned a weak smile. "Fuck off."

Ianto sent his own grin back, a shaky, fleeting touch on his mouth.

"Anyway," she said gently, "this counts as talking to him, I think. So you can say whatever you want."

He nodded slowly, turning his gaze back. "Getting married tomorrow," he continued quietly, the self-conscious tone to his voice dispersing the longer he went on. "The kids brought me in this huge card the other morning. The entire school wrote on it. Kingsley managed to get a subtle 'you wanker' in there. Wish you could see it." Ianto smiled, tapping his fingers on his knee. "Wish you were reading out that fucking speech you wrote with half the country. Wish you were just going to be there. Like you should be."

He swallowed, his expression breaking slightly, and he put his palm against his eyes, ducking his head. He took a few breaths and then went on. "You won football last weekend. 3-2. Owen's playing centre now. Me and Rory went to watch. He broke his wrist last month by the way. You wouldn't have known that." Ianto's face spread into a watery grin. "Mate, you should have seen him do it. He"—A burst of laughter cut his sentence—"literally screamed. It was so funny. I was trying to help him but I couldn't stop laughing at how pathetic it was. He was yelling at me to stop but it just made it worse. You know how Amy was always telling him to fix that middle step on their porch? _I'll do it, Amy, I will._ Well, I've had to do it now. Honestly, I somehow always knew I would end up with that job. He just sat in a chair beside me giving useless instructions and sipping on his fucking juice box. I reckon his wrist is fine though. Just milking it for attention. Oh, remember when Ben broke his arm that year when we all went to T in the Park? I hadn't heard from him in _ages,_ but he sent me a text a couple weeks ago…"

Ianto continued his quiet one-sided chat and Clara leant her head against his shoulder, watching the pink sky start to turn blue, sun beginning to filter through the pine trees at the edge of the clearing. It was peaceful. Birds fluttered in the distance, animated in their early morning chatter.

"I need to forgive him, Clara," Ianto said to her suddenly, breaking the musings she was drifting in.

She lifted her head so she could look at her friend.

"And I can't… I can't until you tell me I can."

"I don't think it works like that," she replied slowly, blinking at his mournful expression and dragging herself back to the present.

Ianto sighed, shaking his head. "He wasn't a bad person. He wasn't malicious or spiteful or cruel. He was… fuck," he breathed. "He was just Danny. Betrayal doesn't make you stop loving someone, does it."

"No," she breathed in agreement. "This has just made it all… rather difficult. _"_

Clara put the palms of her hands together in front of her, tapping her fingers against their mirrored counterparts. "Ianto," she murmured, puzzled. "Why… why have you been so okay with what's happened with John? When Jack and Amy have been so against it?"

He met her gaze and breathed out, fingers wiping across his jaw. "I'm the only one out of the five of us who actually owns his albums," he said finally. "Who actually listens to his music. I've seen him play live four times. Did you know that?"

Clara shook her head, surprised he hadn't told her that earlier.

"First time… when I was about nineteen-ish, I think I would have been. In the pre-Jack-era." He smiled, biting his lip. "When I thought it was a good idea wanting to spend the rest of my life with _Simon Evans._ Set me straight on that one, didn't you, Dan?" Ianto threw some grass at the headstone.

"The Doctor, yesterday… His self-perception filters are so, _so_ fucked. He knows what he can get people to feel, but not _why._ He's not loved and acclaimed just because he can write good songs, Clara. He's a fucking force of nature in front of an audience. It's hard to explain really, you have to see it. What he said about how he feels in the moment he steps on the stage—that isn't a secret, either, like he thinks it is. You can physically see it happen. He changes, and suddenly he makes you feel like he's in your head, telling you something important, _showing_ you something… profound. He's an incredible songwriter but it's how he gives you those words that make him exceed beyond good into…" He frowned, unsure. "I'm not sure. But something else entirely."

Ianto's gaze drifted back to her and he smiled. "You should watch some videos of him playing live at the height of their success. I showed the others some on Wednesday night. There's always been such a… huge contrast between what's happening in interviews and what's happening in his music. And it's so obvious which is real.

"I wanted…" Ianto breathed with sudden laughter. "I always wanted Jack to interview him. I wanted to hear him dealing with someone who doesn't back down when they know they're being lied to."

"The give-me-your-actual-fucking-opinion attitude," Clara mused, smiling a little as she thought about her friend's track record since she had known him.

"Yeah," he grinned. "I thought Jack would be able to coerce him into something a bit more honest. Worked out well, didn't it?"

"Based on past experiences with Jack's interviewing style," she smiled, "maybe we should have predicted this disaster."

"Give us a bit of credit, Clara," he laughed. "You're the one punching random blokes and getting him arrested."

"It was one bloke. And you realise the first thing Jack was going to ask was why his wife was sleeping with another man?"

Ianto grinned, chuckling. "All our wedding photos tomorrow would have had the lingering remnants of physical violence."

Her own grin extended. "Maybe the current course of events has worked out for the best, then. I've done you both a favour."

Ianto leant into her shoulder for a moment, amusement clear on his smiling features.

"Anyway," he exhaled, raising his eyebrows. "My point. When, ah… When you brought him to the bar on Tuesday—" He paused and shook his head slightly with a smile. "Sorry. I'm not actually over the fact that happened. But… when he was looking at you? I know that look. I've known that look since I was nineteen. It feels like his songs. And his words. It's raw, and it's honest, and he's fucking terrible at hiding it."

Ianto shrugged, indifferent suddenly. "I knew what sort of man he was the first time I saw him. Simple as that."

Clara stared at her friend, a little bewildered.

"Clearly, _darling,"_ Ianto drawled in quiet imitation of Jack's teasing address to her. "He's got problems. Which isn't surprising. I can't really conceive it, what it must be like to be exposed in that way, all the time. And I would never dismiss his actions so readily. But I notice that same sort of thing affecting Jack sometimes, you know? And Jack is designed for attention. He loves it. But sometimes, I can see him shifting away from it, just sort of quietly, like… _I've had enough for now._ I don't think we're really designed to sustain it. If you already have an aversion to it, then… Well, to be honest, it doesn't surprise me either that he tried to save himself from burning up, even at the expensive of someone else. We do awful things when we're scared and desperate."

He sighed again. "Of course I'm worried about you," he said gently, tapping his head against her shoulder. "I've been worried about you for six weeks. This wasn't me being uncaring. I just felt like you would be safe. Trusted here"—He put his fingers into his chest—"first. Because my head hasn't been very clear."

Ianto leant backwards into the grass, unconcerned now about the dew on his shirt. He put his hands behind his head and Clara joined him, staring up at the shifting clouds tinged in pink.

"Even so…" He turned his head against his arm to look at her. "Could have been completely wrong. I don't _really_ know the man. I only guessed. But I'm pretty sure I'm right. And the only person who should know, and needs to know, really, is you.

"I should have… should've told you that earlier, I think. After Jack decided it was a good idea to yell at you. But…" He frowned, pulling a face. "I don't know. It's been weird lately."

Humming, he looked at her for a moment with a small, contemplating frown before dropping the expression to grin. "Nice jumper, by the way." He pushed his head into her shoulder, purposely breathing in. "Mmm. Knew it. You're so lucky." His grin turned sly. "What's he like in bed? I deserve to know before Amy."

Clara kicked his foot. "Can you please stop fantasizing about the man I'm… _something with_ , while we're at the cemetery literally on the ground _next_ to my lover and your best friend, the day before your wedding."

Ianto chuckled with a wide grin and he turned his gaze back to the sky. "Do you think if you and Danny had gotten married, you would have taken his last name?" Ianto pointed up to the pink clouds, slowly drifting in varying shapes above them.

"Not a chance," she smiled.

"Thank god," he breathed, relieved. "I would have had to step in and have a really serious conversation with you if you'd been considering it. Do you think you would have married him if he'd asked?"

She frowned. "I'm not sure. I don't know if I'm the marrying type."

"He loved you, Clara," Ianto stated. "I know he did. Maybe just…" His frown deepened on his brow, old confusion filtering back over his expression.

"I know he did, too," she said quietly. "But this... I would have hoped that he could have talked to me. So maybe I… Maybe I just wasn't that person for him. And he didn't know how to tell me that."

Clara sighed, running fingers over her forehead and then rubbing her eyes. "I think you and I just missed something with Dan. I'm never going to know. I thought that would make it impossible for me to… _recover._ But it doesn't feel important anymore. He did something that hurt me, but that doesn't make him a bad person. And we should give him that, I think. He deserves to be remembered how we knew him. Smart and kind and funny and annoying."

Ianto swallowed and met her sincere eyes.

"Forgive him," she said gently. "Love him like we did. Come here and talk to him. Tell him how many matches West Brom lose in the Premiership next year. Don't erase him from our lives. You don't need my permission." She smiled at her friend, holding his gaze. "You loved him, too.

"I will be able to forgive him," she breathed, blinking. "I hope I can. Just… not yet. Not while I—"

 _Can't sleep._

"I can't yet. But I think I can _be_ angry now. I've got that back. For example…" Clara shifted so she could see the grave. "Fuck you, Danny." She smiled, turning back. "Actually… I'm not going to start talking to a headstone. Bit weird. Someone might see."

Ianto smiled, soft eyes glistening. _"So_ weird."

A bird landed near them and began pecking at the ground, ignoring them completely as it busied itself with whatever it was trying to find.

"What sort of bird is that?" Clara asked absently, observing its erratic behaviour.

"Mmm… Starling? I think."

"I know nothing about animals." She sighed again and turned her head on the grass. "John's like an encyclopedia. He could probably give me its entire evolutionary history right back to… DNA formation. And then… I don't know. Probably speak to it in bird language. What am I supposed to do with him?"

"That's your decision," Ianto smiled, watching the bird flap away into the trees.

"But I don't know, Ianto. I honestly don't know what I'm supposed to do now."

"You've always been so good at decision-making, too," he mused, smiling again.

"I know! I've never been like this before."

"Want my opinion? Don't tell the others though. I remember making some sort of weird, cult-like death pact thing with them that we would let you decide everything."

"Well, it's only an opinion."

"Okay," he said gently. "Don't let be any grey in your decision. Make it... black or white, yes or no. If it's no, then that's fine. It's understandable. And much simpler moving forward. I think it would be hard for a little while. But eventually… okay."

Ianto gave her a small smile and then continued. "And if it's yes, then that doesn't mean you can't still be angry, _furious_ even, and maybe… unsure about what happens next. It'll be complicated. But what it does mean, Clara, is that you're willing to accept everything he told you yesterday. It's not condoning his actions but it's definitely putting yourself in a position to be… very, _very_ honest and open with yourself. And you would be offering him forgiveness he doesn't think he deserves, which…" He shook his head slightly, pondering. "I think in the long-run, later, you'd have to figure out some way of getting him to deal with that."

Ianto sighed and tilted his head, eyes turning soft. "You would have to mean it entirely. You can't forgive him for lying to you but not forgive him for infidelity. It won't work. All or… nothing."

Clara exhaled quietly, staring at the sky.

"I'm going to touch you inappropriately," her friend warned with a smile, propping himself up on his elbow.

"Kay," she agreed in a murmur, wanting to roll her eyes at his tone of voice.

Ianto put his palm over her chest. "If you have any doubt here"—Ianto pressed weight into his hand—"then say no. Doubt in your head? That's fine. I wouldn't… trust it yet. You're angry and..." He stopped and grinned. "In the words of my favourite musician— _so_ fucked."

Clara smiled. "I think he's much more fucked than me."

Ianto snickered, eyes warm. "I know. He is." He indicated to her chest. "This is important. Cliché, sure. But generally, I find, rather accurate. So don't make it out of anger, or _lust,_ or confusion. Not for this."

She groaned, cutting off anything he might have been about to continue with. "I've only known him for two weeks! Why does it feel like I've been charged with some monumental, life-changing fucking decision?"

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug and then his soft expression transformed into an incredibly sly and toothy grin, a little too replicant of his fiancé's. "I knew the instant, and I mean the very _instant_ I met Jack that I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. We meet someone and it's just… different. It feels different to everybody else we've met before."

"That, _Ianto,"_ she growled. "Is not helping anything."

His grin, if possible, increased. "You'll be fine, Clara. You're going to be fine. And if you really can't decide, then I'll just do it for you."

"You're defeating the whole purpose of yesterday's… what did you call it? Passive Intervention?"

"Intervention of the Passive Boyfriends."

"I think the name… The name could have done with some work. You should have invited me."

"All right," he growled, "don't start insulting the one thing that's literally saved all of us from having to find new friends."

"Can I join then?"

"No."

"Sexist," she grinned, batting his foot with hers.

Her friend exhaled laughter. "You can apply once I've seen some evidence of passivity. Anyway, as CEO and with fifty one percent shares in IPB"—He grinned as Clara rolled her eyes—"that means I get make the rules. And no one ever has to know if you want me to decide this for you. We'll keep it a secret between us."

Clara pushed his hand away and turned her head into his shoulder as he lay back down on the wet grass. "You probably should have been been my boyfriend," she sighed, draping her arm across him. "So wise."

Ianto laughed. "Ew. _Girls."_

"Well, obviously," she grinned, "we'd have a very platonic sort of life together."

"Mmm. Well, option's always there. You know me and Jack—we're very accommodating."

"Yes, thanks. I know exactly what you two are like." Clara propped herself up and looked down at him. "Hypothetically though, if you were me—"

Ianto cut her off before she could start repeating herself. "My advice? Sure. Delete his number. Don't talk to him again."

"What?"

Ianto stared at her and then started laughing, amusement filtering into his warm eyes. "Your face," he grinned, showing his teeth. "Idiot. You should… be slow. And by slow, I mean bring him to our wedding tomorrow. And then be slow after that. And _do not,_ under any circumstances, ever, for the rest of our lives, tell the others that I told you to do that."

"Are you giving me good advice?"

"Not sure," he smiled, looking back up at the clouds again. "Amy's usually the one with all the good advice. Except—" Lifting his head slightly, he looked at the headstone beyond their feet. "Dan, mate," he called. "I got Amy to admit she was wrong about something. You missed it."

* * *

The sky was just turning dark over the high rooftops on _this street_ as Clara rung the doorbell, scatterings of unwanted but unrelenting nerves circling her system. Just before she considered ringing the bell again, or perhaps starting to think through what she could do if he wasn't home, the door was torn open and John appeared immediately front of her. She took an automatic step backwards as she saw him. He was shirtless and out of breath, covered in a layer of sweat. His hair was wet on his temples, stray strands stuck to his forehead. Black jeans rode low on his hips, unbuttoned at the top and rolled at the bottom. Mismatched socks were pulled over the cuffs.

"Clara?"

She blinked, feeling just as taken aback as he looked. "Ah… Am I… interrupting something?"

He stared at her in surprise, mouth parting, and then shook his head quickly, wiping a hand down his chest. "No. No, I was just punching."

"Punching?"

"Yeah."

"Something… inanimate?"

He paused. "Well, yeah. Of course. I'm not actually a violent offender."

As the more carnal part of her brain started making itself known, she began internally cursing at herself and then at him for how distracting this was. She stared at his body, sighing at her inopportune reaction. She hadn't exactly expected him to open the door like _this_. Her eyes ran over his panting chest and then to his arms, muscles flexing slightly. Probably from the change in temperature. It was freezing.

"Do you workout in jeans?"

John trailed his hands to his stomach, running his thumb absently over the exposed waistband of his pants and then dragged his eyes away from her to look down. "No." He shook his head again, thoughts obviously catching up to his hands. "Just better to answer the door less naked than I already was, I suppose… Sorry. I wasn't really thinking."

"Right."

John gestured through the door. "Would you like to… come in?"

"No, no thanks. I'm not staying."

"Oh, okay."

The line on his jaw and cheek where Jack had hit him was now a curve of angry red. He wiped his eyes and then his brow before standing a little straighter.

"I just, ah, wanted to ask you something—well, two questions actually, if that's okay. Just yes-no questions. So it's easy. You don't need to explain anything."

"Of course," he murmured. His heavier breath started dropping into something more steady and calm.

She was nervous. Awkward even as she addressed his now quiet and patient figure. "Okay, um, first question is…" She swallowed, putting her hands into her coat pockets and making fists to stop herself from fidgeting. "Can I… Can I take you to the Science Museum? Not now, obviously. It's closed. But later. Sometime. If you wanted to. Or the Natural History Museum. To see the giant stick insect."

"The museum," he repeated slowly after a moment of silence.

"Yeah. I could take you. You could look at things and I could just… look at you looking at things. I want you to be able to go. So you're not by yourself. And the second question," she continued quickly, moving on before he had even given an answer. "If you want to say no to this for whatever reason, that's completely fine. It doesn't have to reflect anything else. I'll understand. So, would you want to… come to Jack and Ianto's wedding with me tomorrow?"

He stared at her, blinking again. She had no idea what he was thinking. His eyes were just surprised.

"They're fine with it, if you're worried about that," she added quickly. "Everyone's fine with it. It's, um, well. It's… the capital T, capital W event so there'll be a lot of media and people and general… chaos, I guess." She trailed off, frowning and anxious, running out of words.

"Yes," John accepted quietly, keeping his eyes on her.

"To the museum or the wedding?"

"Yes to both."

Clara nodded, feeling both unexpected astonishment and relief flood through her. "Right. Okay. That's good." In her pockets, she twisted her hands, the flood not completely wiping out her apprehension. "I'm staying at Amy and Rory's tonight. So, ah… for tomorrow... we're getting picked up at one, but you could come earlier, if you wanted to. Amy wants to talk to you, too. I can text you the address."

He nodded slowly.

"I'm still wearing your jumper," she mentioned, just for something to say, gesturing at the black knitwear exposed beneath her unbuttoned coat. "Would you like it back?"

John shook his head, eyes still not leaving hers.

"I guess that was three questions."

"You can keep it," he murmured. "Suits you."

"Okay," she exhaled, giving him a small smile. "Well. That was all. You should go inside. It's really cold."

Once again, she couldn't read his expression. She looked at him for another moment and then gave a slow salute before turning around and walking slowly back to the street. Clara glanced behind her as she got in Rory's borrowed car. John remained, watching her leave, hands at his sides and looking every bit like a sculpted statue decorating the entrance. She tore her eyes away, yet couldn't help but smile, the expression pressing on her mouth matching the feeling in her chest.

 _Happy? Maybe. Maybe a little bit happy._


	22. Explain This Disaster

**Chapter 22: Explain This Disaster**

* * *

Weddings. She'd been to a few. A bridesmaid with Amy for a friend from university a couple of years ago. Earlier, her Dad's second wedding to _that other woman._ An event she decided had notably improved with under-age drinking. There had been Danny's plus-one at his cousin's event in Bristol, as well as various occasions as an obligated guest of relatives or semi-close friends who thought she was familiar enough to invite.

The general consensus was, however, they were all a bit of an overdone fiasco—a good excuse to get a little bit drunk, flirt with handsome strangers in suits and calculate how much cheaper it would have been to pop off down to the registry office and then take everyone to the nearest pub afterwards. Ironically, she had now just participated in organising one of the biggest fiasco-laden events she would probably ever attend.

At Amy and Rory's house, the three of them were now ready to go other than the fact that Clara and Amy were not yet dressed, defiantly adamant to leave it to the last moment to counter their undying annoyance about fact that it was _goddamn_ _November._

When the doorbell rang, they paused their final monetary bets on just how long it would take Ianto's grandmother to say something overtly inappropriate, and looked towards the entrance. Rory jumped up to answer. "Everyone calm?" he asked them with a grin before disappearing into the hallway.

"So calm," Clara muttered, nerves skating around her body in an immediate flurry.

"What… the _fuck,"_ Amy exclaimed in disgust as Rory brought John through into the living room, staring at him almost open mouthed.

Rory looked confused and then concerned. "Amy?"

The look on her face turned into something comparable to outrageous disbelief as she addressed their guest further. "Where did you get that suit?"

John's expression changed, transforming with relief as she jumped up to circle around him.

"This must have cost _thousands._ Yeah?"

"Yeah..."

"Rory," Amy muttered, absently extending her hand in his general direction. "Remember I love you.

"You look…" she directed at John, "... Jesus Christ. You look incredible. And you are _stupidly_ handsome, in this weird sort of dark, brooding way? There's something about how you talk and in how you move. I haven't interrogated Clara about this yet, but I can imagine you're the sort of man who knows exactly what they're doing in bed when—"

"Okay!" Rory exclaimed from the couch. "That's enough of that."

John blinked, startled. "Well, I'm… flattered, Amy, thank you. I think."

Amy hummed, frowning at him. "Right. Come with me. I need to speak with you." She pointed towards the door leading to the kitchen.

"Can I say hello first?" Clara asked, giving her friend an imploring look, trying to press down her smile.

"No, you can't say _hello,_ " Amy stressed with a scowl and then turned back to John in disbelief. _"How_ do you look that good?"

Amy was right. About everything. Today's suit choice was a deep grey, bordering into territory black. Instead of a belt, braces peaked beneath the jacket, accompanied with a black tie and white handkerchief just poking from the breast pocket. Most notably, he'd gotten his hair cut. The long silver curls had lost their wild, unruly entanglement and instead were tamed neatly above his sharp features. The sides were much shorter, accentuating the length on the top. She sighed. He looked better than incredible.

"Fucksake," Amy exhaled, dragging her eyes away from him. "Kitchen's that way. In you go." She pointed to the door and then grinned as she noticed Clara and Rory's varying smiling expressions. "Both of you calm down. He's still high on my list of people that can be described with a four letter word beginning with C."

"Cool?" John suggested with a quiet smile.

"Exactly," Amy laughed, pointing him again through the door. _"Cool._ Oh my god. _Imagine_ if I actually tried something with you." Amy started chuckling and Clara burst into laughter. Rory groaned, failing to keep a straight face.

"I honestly don't know if I'm supposed to laugh," John confessed, helpless.

Amy gave them all a dangerous grin. "How much worse could we make this week?"

"I think that might do it," Rory grinned back.

"Fucking hell. Why not? We're on a roll. Let's go and have our… revenge-revenge affair?" Amy shrugged and pushed John into the corridor. She cackled and slammed the door behind them.

Rory apparently, was currently accepting praise for being the saviour of the nation.

 _The biggest issue right now is Jack's moment in calling Sharon Lowles a deplorable bitch. Other than that, we're all systems go for The Wedding. There'll be a nationwide revolt if this goddamn thing isn't broadcast._

Neither she nor Jack were sure of their employment position yet, but Michelle, who was actually coming to the wedding, had promised her a meeting early next week. In her head, she had already concluded she didn't have a job. She couldn't see how she would survive what had happened. Rory was oddly quiet about the matter, simply telling her not to jump to any conclusions. He didn't give her any details and she hadn't asked for any, but it was clear from his frowning hesitation that something pivotal was in play. The significance of what had happened wasn't lost on her, but she didn't want to think about it yet. What had become apparent however, was just how much her friend had been carrying her for the last six weeks. In the face of probable disaster, it was now quite clear Rory had been shadowing everything she'd been doing for The Wedding, filling in the gaps, making the contingencies needed so that if she had been pulled out of it, he would be able to step in and take over with the least amount of damage done as possible. Which he had achieved, even at this late stage. She hadn't been quite able to notice the prior extent of it, too numb and distracted to observe his subtle activities. It wasn't that she'd let her work slip, it was that she hadn't asked for help when she needed it. She was utterly overwhelmed by his actions. When she had tried to express some sort of gratitude and indebtedness, he had just grinned and reminded her she owed him two Christmas presents. She wanted to tell him she would buy Christmas itself, for him, but she didn't quite know how to express it properly.

"Probably shouldn't have let them go into the only room containing knives," Rory considered, sending a grin to Clara and then opening the door to listen attentively for a moment. "Okay, they're laughing, that's got to be a good sign." The passive observation didn't last long. He frowned suddenly. "What… Hey!" he yelled out, disappearing into the corridor. "Amy! No! Neither of you are allowed to argue politics today! Amy! I organised the guest list and I will take you off it!"

Amy and John reemerged, Rory scowling on their heels.

"Can you two please make sure I'm never in the wrong about anything again?" Amy sighed. "Apologising is painful."

"Did you remember to say the actual word 'sorry'?" Rory queried, spinning his girlfriend around and searching her regretful expression.

"Sure I must have slipped it in there somewhere."

John remained by the door, capturing her eyes for attention. "Clara? Can I speak to you, too?"

She jumped up and followed him back into the kitchen, leaning against the bench as he turned around to face her.

"Hello, by the way." John said softly, shy.

"Hello."

He paused, biting his lip. "I've never had anyone apologise to me so sincerely but look so pained doing it."

She pressed down the smile threatening to form on her lips. "At least yours was only five minutes. Amy and Jack spent the entirety of yesterday afternoon practically grovelling at my feet."

John took a deeper breath, apprehensive. "Um, Clara?"

She raised her eyebrows slightly, encouraging him to continue.

"About… Danny. You—you should know that it was River's manager who told Sharon about him." He swallowed, clear anxiety in his eyes. "The accident and the affair. I, ah, don't know how she found out, but when you have money and unlimited resources… It's, well… not hard to get people to speak."

"Okay," she replied, nodding.

"But," he continued, his words stressed with concern, "it wasn't River who told her to do it. I want you to know that, too. Tabloid revenge is far, far beneath her. She knows what it's like and would never do that to anyone. No matter who they were. The easiest way for her PR to do damage control has been to hurt you. She's rather furious at her manager, if that helps." His hands twisted at his waist. "So. That's all."

"It's okay," she smiled softly, gentle. "I'm not very concerned about any of this at the moment."

He looked helpless, unsure what to do with her easily conceding manner. "I needed to tell you that."

"John," she reassured. "It's fine. Today, it's fine."

Still looking unconvinced, she internally rolled her eyes and sighed. "Can I tell you something?"

He nodded quickly. He was beginning to look as he had done in his bedroom, standing helpless and defeated. She didn't want him to feel like that. Not today. Not ever.

"You'll have to come closer." She raised her eyebrows and he hesitantly took a step towards her. "Don't take this the wrong way." Claiming his upper arm, she pulled him down so she could whisper beside his ear. _"Calm down."_

When she pulled back he was amused enough to give a weak smile.

"What did you say to Sharon, by the way? Seeing as you've slipped back into confessional mode." She smiled. "Outside the studio."

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

"Please? I really want to know."

He swallowed, anxious again. "I wasn't very nice."

Clara shrugged as he hesitated again.

"Okay. Well, ah… something along the lines of… 'if you touch her again I will devote the entirety of my waking life and what's left of my notable influence to finish the job she started', then"—He took a deep breath—"something about hoping she's now absolutely clear on my stance towards blackmail and that I would have no hesitation in being the person taking the fall in leaking her Gay-gate interview… I mean, I don't—I don't actually know what she _said_ in that, but I just implied that I did. I think she got that…"

"Okay…" Clara murmured slowly as he continued.

"... And then I said I thought Jack's prior description of her was far too kind and that she could ring me on Monday after I'd had the weekend to assemble my official statement containing the words pathetic, homophobic, appalling vacuous miserable sensationalist…" He trailed off, looking ashamed and partly mortified. "I think there was probably more. Can't remember. I was just listing words."

Clara stared at him. "Right."

"Yeah." John exhaled, dropping his shoulders. "And then I just… suggested she could fuck right off." He sighed, scrubbing across his eyes, downcast and dejected. "I've probably made things worse."

"Mmm. That's quite the statement."

"Yes."

"Do you… regret saying all that?"

He paused for a moment and then shrugged helplessly. "I'm not really sure. But honestly… probably not."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Yeah. Good. I mean, don't do it again. But, good."

He seemed a little relieved.

"Thanks," she added.

"Thanks?"

"Yes. For… championing me, I suppose."

"I meant it." He swallowed, staring back, eyes suddenly fiercely insistent and vehement. "If anyone touches you, I am going to destroy them."

She blinked, startled.

"Professionally, I mean. Not… physically. Unless someone does actually touch you and then I will also physically destroy them." He wet his lips. "Yeah. So."

"You probably should calm down," she replied, smile pressing on her mouth. "So violent."

"I wouldn't really," he amended, shaking his head quickly.

She raised her eyebrows, skeptical.

"But I would," he rectified again, earnest. "I would if someone hurt you. Okay?" His eyes darted over face. Lost in his altering assurances, clearly not wanting to come across as so protective. He'd trapped himself in a corner and was now trying uselessly to get out of it. She tried not to smile too much.

"Yessir," she replied, wanting to laugh at his determined but helpless expression. "Glad we've cleared that up."

His vulnerable, insecure look returned and she shook her head, ducking and smiling a little. She was pretty sure he'd just articulated—if awkwardly—exactly what she also felt like doing for him.

"No belt today," she commented, completely changing the topic for the sake of his wellbeing.

"Ah…" He drew the edges of his jacket back to look, running fingers down his braces. "No." He smiled a little more genuinely. "Do you like braces?"

"I like everything you wear. You look… rather brilliant. Very handsome."

That remark made him instantly shy and he blinked rapidly, tips of his ears _possibly_ turning a little red. She grinned at his response and cast her gaze to the bottom of his trousers. The hems were cut just slightly too short, scraping his ankles instead, removing the break. Under no circumstances would that have been an accident, not with his attention to detail. She crouched down and grabbed his calf, pulling the hems up to inspect his socks. One black, one grey. She looked up at him with a smirk.

"Want to explain this disaster, too?"

He smiled and shrugged. "I don't know why I do that. Always have."

"You know," Clara mused, grinning as she stood up to lead him out of the kitchen, "you and River have been bloody awful at picking your managers. So personal! I thought they were just for scheduling your calendar and talking to people like me on the phone." She opened the living room door and ushered him through with another grin.

"Want us to cover Jack's work, Doctor?" Amy drawled, nodding at his cheek and picking up some concealer from the collection on the table.

John shook his head with a tiny smile. "No, thanks. I think I should wear it."

"I could even out the other side instead," she suggested, a smirk touching her lips as she closed her fist in front of her chest and rather casually inspected her knuckles.

"Amy," Rory threatened, narrowing his eyes and moving in front of the mirror. "Would you like to attend another IPB meeting?"

"Only if you provide better snacks," she smiled in reply.

"So fussy," he sighed, tugging at his bowtie. "Why doesn't this stay even?"

Clara smiled at John, contemplating and then leant into the table, crossing her arms. "Can we straighten your hair?"

"Ah… what?"

"You know how your hair isn't straight?"

"Well, yeah. But it just grows like that," he said slowly, confused. "Can't do anything about it."

Clara looked at Amy and they exchanged a grin at his obliviousness.

"We can doing something about it," Amy explained.

"Don't you like it like this?" he asked almost sadly, putting a hesitant fingers through his curls. "I just had it cut. This morning."

"Oh my god, just sit down, you idiot," Clara grinned, grabbing his hand. "I love your haircut. This is just for fun." She pulled him into a chair and stood in front of him.

"Secretly, Clara and I have always wanted to be stylists," Amy grinned, switching on the straightners.

"That's not a secret," Rory contended, looping his bowtie around his neck to redo it.

"I think I've managed pretty well my entire life without a stylist."

"You know, for once," Amy shrugged, "I can't argue with that. Not while you're dressed like this."

"I'm my own stylist." John smiled, looking happy with himself until he eyed the straightners with wary hesitation as Amy grabbed them. "Clara," he muttered. "I'm worried about your friend holding a hot iron next to my face."

Amy started laughing and passed them over. John touched his hair. "I'm not sure how I feel about this."

"The best approach is just to accept you don't have a choice," Rory smiled. "Eventually they'll get bored or distracted with something else and leave you alone."

"Rory," Clara scolded, glaring at him. "What exactly would your casual everyday-wear be if we hadn't stepped in?"

"Yeah, exactly," Amy smirked, moving to him so she could fix his collar. "That's what we thought. Now shush."

Clara pulled the front of John's hair gently through her fingers, clamping the straighteners over his silver curls and pulling them through. She smiled as the heat served its purpose. His hair was too short at the sides now to do anything with but the curls on top retained most of their former length. The shorter bits stuck up straight and the rest fell in a messy pile. It was a softly intimate task, hands caressing him gently as she moved across his head.

"I was going to dye my hair," he told her, tilting slightly so he could look at her while she worked.

"Huh? When?"

"Ages ago. When it started going all silvery."

"Really?" Clara grinned at him, surprised.

"Yeah. Ed and Hamish made fun of me. I was only about thirty. They still make fun of me, actually. They're both quite mean to me. You'd get on really well with them, Amy."

Amy snorted from across the room, impressed. "Nice. That was pretty good."

"Do you think I should should dye my hair?"

"No!" Clara and Amy both exclaimed together.

"I mean, do what you want," Clara amended, not wanting to suddenly come across as dictating. "But don't. Or do. But you shouldn't."

"Thanks for that clear opinion, Clara," he smiled, eyes glittering.

Amy started grinning and then laughing, crossing her arms and leaning back into Rory as she succumbed to amusement.

Clara frowned suspiciously at her. "What?"

"Nothing," she insisted, shaking her head.

"Are you laughing at me?" John asked, glancing at her.

"No. Not really. It's just… No."

Clara sighed as Amy remained laughing at them, knowing very well if her friend didn't voice whatever it was, she would just continue on like this. "What, Amy? Get it over with."

"Is it too early to start making jokes about divorce makeovers?"

" _Yes,"_ Clara expressed, giving her the best unimpressed glare she could manage. "About a million years too early."

Amy shrugged, smirking. "Let me know then. Let me know when I'm allowed because I literally have an unlimited amount of things I want to say about the two of you. Doctor, Clara thinks she's funny but it's only because she learnt everything from me."

"Ah—no, Amy. No way. You can't learn snap-wit."

"Rory," Amy growled. "Who's funnier out of me and Clara?"

"Oh, sure, Pond," Clara protested, pointing the straightners at her. "This is definitely going to be an unbiased opinion."

"You're both hilarious," Rory muttered absently, reading something from a sheet of paper. "Actually, I'm pretty funny. Wait till you hear what I've written in this speech." Rory started laughing to himself, nodding at the page. "Yeah. I'm more funny than either of you."

Clara finished John's hair and Amy joined her, the two of them experimenting with various probably-shouldn't-go-out-in-public-like-this styles that made them laugh. John managed to put up a good show of begrudging resentment until they gave him a mirror. After being initially bewildered, he then began giving them instructions until they finally settled on simply sweeping it back in something resembling a quiff. John smiled, looking rather pleased with the result.

"Happy?" she asked him, swiping at wayward strands.

"Yes," he murmured, swallowing and dropping his gaze. An equivocal response to an equivocal question.

Clara was pulled by Amy into the bedroom so they could finally change into their selected attire, and she gave her friend the usual and customary jealous complaints about _super-model-height-slash-face._

"Fuck off, Clara," Amy laughed. "We've had this same conversation for thirteen years. You know what you look like."

Amy peered out the window, frowning. "We're so lucky with the weather. _Why_ did they think it was a good idea to get married in November?"

"Two men in suits," Clara grinned. "If Jack had persisted in that idea of wearing a dress, we wouldn't be having this problem. Summer wedding. Twenty five degrees."

"So inconsiderate," Amy smiled. "Still. John can give you his jacket. I'm going to call him that, by the way. Just when he's annoying me. _John."_

"Pretty much the first thing I said to him was that I thought 'Doctor' was pretentious."

Amy cackled, impressed. "Jesus. Course you did. Can you do this up?

"Oh my god," her friend exhaled, raising her eyebrows. "That suit. How much do you think?"

"I've honestly got no idea. Over five?"

"Must be. That's easily from the Row. Where's your other heel?"

"He didn't spend five grand on a suit though. That's just…"

Amy shook her head, grinning. "No, Clara. He spent _over_ five grand on a suit. He could have spent fifteen on that. Merrion suits can come in over thirty. So can Westmancott."

"Fuck off," Clara breathed. "If he's wearing a thirty thousand pound suit, I'm leaving him here."

"Ask him."

"I'm too scared. He's got an entire rack of them in his wardrobe. He, ah…" Clara paused, smile growing on her lips. "We had dinner last Thursday and he arrived at my place dressed like that."

Amy laughed, warm eyes meeting hers.

"Yeah," she continued, a little bashful and looking away. "I almost fell over."

Talking with Amy. She hadn't done this in awhile. It felt… good. Really good. She was pulled in front of the mirror for inspection.

"You didn't hold back on the low cut, Oswald," her friend laughed, tracing a line down her own chest.

Clara scoffed and pulled a face. "I'm _sorry,"_ she growled cynically. "Have you noticed what you're wearing? _Barely_ wearing."

"Rory's going to love this. He hasn't seen it."

"We do look pretty good, actually," Clara agreed, grinning back at their reflections.

"How about we get the men to upgrade that adjective, yeah?"

Clara let Amy drag her back out of the bedroom. As intended, Rory's face lit up and he jumped at Amy instantly, pulling her back out of the room with a wide grin, possibly in some purposeful, considerate move for her and John's benefit. Clara smiled softly at his expression and put her finger under his chin to close his mouth.

"It's just a dress."

"It's just a suit," he murmured vacantly.

He stood up, closer to her than someone else might stand. "You look beautiful, Clara," he said quietly, fixing to her eyes.

It was too raw, too sincere. She blinked and then found herself blushing, dropping her eyes as his honesty became too much for her to deal with. Very gently, John placed a finger under her chin, just as she had done, and raised her head.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered hoarsely, almost inaudible.

She swallowed hard and tried to breathe normally, failing entirely as his eyes refused to let her go.

Amy's address interrupted them. "I reckon I could get a few thousand pounds from the Sun for that one," she grinned, phone in hand, obviously just having taken a photo. "Car's here. Ready to go?"


	23. Capital T, Capital W

**Chapter 23: Capital T, Capital W**

* * *

The red carpet greeted her first. Lovely colour, Clara grinned to herself as she saw it. Today though, it was good.

The location for The Wedding had been chosen in an incredibly convoluted democratic vote after a lengthy campaign— _war_ —between three potential venues, and, to Amy's disgust and subsequent on-air phone call to complain, was in the City of London. The encircling roads had been closed off to accommodate the crowd, which even with Clara's generous estimate of size seemed to be far bigger than what she had expected. As they exited the car, she stood with Rory practically gawking at what they were seeing.

Barriers had been set in place along the carpet, event staff racing up and down as the guests arrived and media cycled in their groups up and down the path. There were cameras everywhere, both hired for the actual event and from the invited media, various outlets for news coverage and stories. Distantly, she could hear she could hear the broadcast _broadcasting_ from the wide array of speakers spread around the area. Rory pulled out his phone and attached headphones, absently passing her one ear. As official host for the day, Mickey Smith's voice came down the line and they took a moment to orientate on what was happening. From somewhere, Jack's voluble mother was giving Mickey a rundown on what sounded like the excessive list of her son's previous boyfriends. Clara looked at the time, noting the broadcast to the nation had been running just over an hour already. Grinning at each other, Rory re-pocketed his phone and whistled through his teeth in awe.

"This… is amazing," Amy breathed, spinning in a slow circle. "You two _made_ this."

"Jack made it," Clara corrected vacantly, staring at the crowds. "I encouraged it. And Rory… saved it."

To their left, rotated for the crowd, was a huge screen with a live feed from somewhere along the carpet. Displaying an overhead and then away to Mickey, Clara grinned as she recognised Jack's mother, animatedly chatting away. Officially invited guests were streaming down the carpeted path toward the entrance in the distance. Clara spotted Rachel who was coordinating the radio broadcast and herself and Rory waved slowly in bewilderment to her. She grinned at them and waved greetings back.

Clara turned to John, finding him blinking slowly in the flashes from photographers and the vast crowd. "Okay?"

"Yeah," he grinned. "I'm an expert. This is only my one hundredth red carpet event."

She wasn't _entirely_ sure what to do with him. What she wanted, was to take his hand and lean into his arm before either escorting him down the carpet, or have him escort her down, or ideally, escort _each other_ through the masses of people. She frowned a little, unsure, not altogether having thought through what they were supposed to do.

Mickey appeared in front of them suddenly, bright and eager and full of enthusiasm, microphone in one hand and followed by an array of video cameras. Behind him, Rachel tapped her ear for Clara and Rory's benefit to indicate they were about to be on air.

"Oh, and here they are, ladies and gentlemen—it's the producers themselves, the organisers and encouragers of this whole goddamn celebration—Clara Oswald and Rory Williams. Or is it still Pond these days, mate?"

"It's Pond," Amy cut in with a smirk, sliding an arm around Rory's waist.

"I don't think I get a choice," he shrugged.

"Clara Oswald and Rory Pond, possibly our most _prestigious_ guests of the day, surely the most honorary. None of us would be here without you two, yeah? Thoughts for the listeners?"

"Ideally we'd be down at the registry office right now and then across the road at the pub," Clara laughed. "But I don't remember anyone really liking that option. The last nine months would have been severely less interesting."

"Jack was only ever going to have this," Rory smiled, glancing up to one of the large screens now visually displaying their interview. "But I'm… well, both of us, are astounded, actually. By how many people are here. This is incredible. Hello, everybody. Thank you for listening to our little show."

 _"Little_ show?" Mickey exclaimed, clapping his arm. "Mate, this is the biggest show in the country!"

A cheer from the crowd went up on either side of them. There were so many people. In an odd moment of surreal reflection, Clara struggled to process what the hell it was they had actually done to warrant this. This was new, she smiled to herself, gazing at the surrounding skyline that made up this very old city. This marriage was only in its infancy here, its years only countable on one hand. New was good.

"We'll believe it when word gets in from the palace that the Queen is actually listening," Rory was saying. "Until then, it's probably best that only one third of us has a massive ego."

"Speaking of her majesty, have you all been practicing our national sing-along?"

"For god's sake," Clara laughed, turning to Rory. "Are we actually still doing the anthem? Didn't we win that argument?"

"I remember winning that! _We_ organised the programme!" he expressed in frustration. "Oh, well, great. Nice to know Jack's back to undermining our authority. Nothing's changed."

Mickey laughed and then his eyes flickered to their right. "Well, there's also absolutely no chance of me not mentioning what else is going on here, and because no one's briefed me on the appropriate way to deal with this situation, I'm going to take the risk. We're in company with _the Doctor,_ who is sporting significant bruising on the side of his face. However… to the disgust of everyone, I think it's best just not to ask you two any questions?"

"Today's about Jack and Ianto," Clara smiled with calm insistence. "We've had enough air-time."

"Not interested in hijacking the broadcast, Clara?" John grinned, crossing his arms. "Why am I here?"

Clara gave him a wry smile. "All right, Mick. Go annoy someone else now. I need to refresh myself on the lyrics that come after God save our gracious Queen."

"Sure your date can help you out with that one—oh, did I get away with that?" Mickey gave them a sly grin and spun away, moving on quickly. "Right, we're crossing back now to Jack, who I'm hearing has just run into Ianto's ex-boyfriend from university, yeah—the very one who broke up with him because of that disagreement over a haircut. So if you thought Thursday's event was a bit of a ride, it's gonna have _nothing_ on _this…"_

Clara smiled and closed her eyes briefly as the immediate attention left them, listening to the loud cheers and yells of their audience.

"Look." John directed her attention to parts of the crowd at the barriers that were calling his name— _Doctor!_ —and waving. "I've still got fans. I'd better say hello."

She watched him make his way over, a crooked but genuine smile on his face. Meeting the crowd, he put his hand through his newly straightened hair and laughed, clearly reacting to a comment from someone. Handshakes and autographs and smiles.

Down they all went, slowly because everyone it seemed, wanted to talk to them. Colleagues from the station, extended friends from their little circle, the journalists she recognised from television—who rather professionally avoided comment on Thursday's mess and kept on topic—and the one who didn't who subsequently learnt first hand just how unashamedly, unawkwardly and blankly silent John could be when questioned on something he didn't want to answer. The descent continued, through the half of London that Jack _had_ flirted with, and the other that he was yet to, an endless mass of laughing, happy and cold people.

John spotted Donna about halfway down, getting her attention amidst her own circling crowd. His public relations manager was clearly in her element, already with champagne in one hand, the other waving animatedly in speech. Before anything else, Donna looked at John's hair and laughed uncontrollably, almost needing to grab him for support. John scowled, trying to remain indignant and unimpressed. She put an appreciating arm around Clara and then asked her bluntly and far too similarly how many drinks she was supposed to have until she could start making comments on divorce makeovers. At that, Clara retrieved Amy and put the two of them in front of each other to officially meet and workshop their combined inappropriate remarks while she ducked away to speak to some of the other producers from the station.

Jack and Ianto found them eventually, both of them practically jumping up and down with excitement, bright eyed and dashing— _and warm_ —in their suits. The five of them managed to get a semi-coherent photo together before Amy was whisked away by members of the associated print media and Rory pulled Clara with him to talk to someone they knew from… somewhere. She kept her eyes on John as he engaged in a handshake with Jack. Her friend pulled him forward, speaking into his ear until a slow grin began spreading on John's face. Jack took his chin between his forefinger and thumb and twisted his head, pressing a kiss into the aggressive line of red on his cheek. John laughed and then to Clara's complete surprise, he mirrored the action and took Jack's left hand, flattening it over his open palm.

It was a strangely intimate move, especially for someone who was so reserved and controlled around strangers. Except Jack wasn't exactly a stranger to him, she realised in a rush of warmth. Not just because they'd already met, but because he'd spent three hours a week with him for eleven months.

 _I'm avidly invested in The Wedding._

Just like everyone else here, John was… a listener. Part of the audience. Someone who had been affected by the story, caught up in Jack's anarchic world. He would have been listening if he wasn't here.

Instead, he was telling Jack something, quiet but imperative. Whatever it was, her friend was quite visibly moved. His expression changed from the amiable grin into a softer smile and he nodded slowly, clearly touched. Clara glanced at one of the screens, the moment being captured for everyone to see. Jack called over his shoulder to Ianto, and as he joined them, John took his hand too, relaying something that made Ianto react in the same way Jack had. Part of her wished she could have heard what he was saying, but knew the words were only for them.

"The boys won't mind if you join them at the front to say the vows," she grinned as he returned to his side.

John laughed. "Are we progressive enough yet for same-same-sex marriage?"

"If Jack and I somehow manage to survive next week, he'll probably be starting the campaign on air."

Forgetting how indecisive she'd been earlier, she slid her hand into his and turned into him slightly.

"Are you cold?" he murmured, pressing his arm against her exposed skin.

"Yes, actually. It's November."

"Would you like my jacket?"

Clara frowned up at him. "Can you whisper, very quietly into my ear, the first number or first two numbers for how much you paid for this suit?"

He tried to hide his smile. "I like this game. Shall I round up or down?"

"Down, please."

He nodded, pressing his lips together to stop from laughing. "Ready?"

"Do it."

He leant in and put his mouth beside her ear. "Fifteen."

She closed her eyes for a moment and then smiled wryly at him. "No, I absolutely do not want your jacket, thank you very much."

"What was the cut off?"

"One."

He leant back and laughed properly, highly amused.

"I'd be a fool to cover up this dress, anyway," she smirked at him. "Even if it is only twelve degrees."

She could feel the cameras on them, flashing away while his eyes danced over her, searching and then warm. "You're taller today," he murmured, leaning into her again.

"Mmm. But less stable. Inside? I've managed to bribe my way into getting front row tickets to this thing."

The ceremony was beautiful, funny as it was emotional, and a far from traditional approach. More of a _controlled-shambles_ of continuous talking and laughter. For awhile she heard the proceedings as the producer, impressed at the seamless flow Mickey and Rachel were creating and how this would sound to the people in their homes and in their cars and in their workplaces and wherever else Britain was spending Saturday afternoon. Yet eventually the narrative slipped away and she forgot, focused on her friends at the front, the ones grinning like it was the happiest day of their lives— _it is_ —and speaking their vows like they meant them— _they do_.

Amy was wiping away tears and once Jack, from the altar, had instructed her to calm down with a malevolent grin, countered by a _fuck off, don't tell me to calm down,_ the entire thing descended into madness and mayhem and love.

A short trip upstairs took them to the reception where she first spent some time with Rory congratulating themselves in the most egotistical way they could put into the English language about their successfully completed broadcast. John laughed beside her, contributing helpfully with his own thesaurus of conceited and vain synonyms for their disposal. After photos and the first dance—which made a surprisingly fantastic use of the stripper procession—the plethora of speeches commenced, headed by Jack to roll out the first of the pre-recorded content. Rory gleefully collected his twenty pounds from both herself and Amy as Ianto's very Welsh grandmother made it known in a overly loud tone halfway through just how glad she was that her grandson hadn't married any of the English scum. Clara and Rory exchanged a rare look of relief that this wasn't being broadcast live and could edit the evening down. Smirking, John put his mouth on her ear.

 _I might employ her services for my Official Sharon Lowles Statement, Clara._

The list went on, Ianto following Jack, succeeded by both sets of parents, followed with shorter sentiments by people involved in the show and then to various persons of import who, according to Clara, Rory and Amy's suspicious conclusions, Jack _must_ have paid-off to spout screeds of compliments and sentiments. Rory read Danny's best man speech with an added prelude of his own for Ianto, which turned out to be a disaster for anyone thinking they wouldn't be crying at least once during the space of the event. She closed her eyes as Rory spoke Danny's words, imagining them in his voice and then looking to her friend, the recipient for this intended love and felt herself break slightly as he did. Jack slid his arms around Ianto's shoulders and Amy put her arm around her, and for a little moment they gave space for their missing friend to speak his final words.

A wedding like this however— _The_ Wedding—couldn't maintain sadness for long. There was too much going on and the boys were too ecstatic, permanent smiles now etched onto their faces. As the crowd became consistently more intoxicated and rowdy, the party began and the tone changed, shifting into something a little more familiar, evolving or devolving into a less structured and arbitrary state.

Clara had made a conscious decision earlier not to drink, wanting to maintain a clear head and it seemed John was quietly intent to do the same, politely declining everything he was offered. She wanted to talk to him like she was supposed to talk to the person she had invited to a wedding—comment in laughing murmurs about the other guests, speculate on just _who_ exactly would be going home with _who,_ speak nonsense about anything and make their silly jokes—yet both of their attentions seemed to be constantly required elsewhere. They were barely given a chance, smiling at each other instead and then separating, being pulled in different directions by people they both knew. John seemed to have an industry cross-over with Jack and merged with calm grace into the swarm of endless people. Clara watched him for awhile, tall and striking within the crowd that turned faceless the longer she kept her eyes on him. It was a good thing, perhaps, their distance. The small talk… she wasn't sure if they could yet. It was the wrong order. The weight of needing a different conversation hung between them. And here, it was too noisy and too busy, so she let him go, dragging her gaze away and summoning the energy to do _chat_ instead _._

Donna captured her attention for awhile, Clara asking her with intrigue about her role in John's life. Their personal relationship clearly exceeded the professional and she was more than happy to relate a few choice selections of misadventure and suspiciously legally dubious content from their thirteen years together. Clara wanted to speak to Donna properly, she had questions and queries about a range of topics, but now wasn't the time. There was nothing else to say, not here, not today in this environment, and when Michelle took herself and Rory aside for a moment to congratulate them with ardent and kind sincerity on what they had achieved, the same rules applied. Only that one conversation needed to happen. The likelihood of it occurring was starting to seem a little slim as she couldn't even access the man she'd invited, but the need for it wasn't immediately pressing. There was time. Somewhere.

Later, when the room was darker and the music was louder, Clara told Rory where she was going and slipped out onto a balcony at the side, in need of fresh air. An overhead heater provided her enough warmth as not to freeze in the unideal temperature of the evening. The outside crowd had long dispersed and the remaining crew were now finishing clearing away the last of the barriers and sound equipment. Roads open again, she sat and watched ceaseless, indistinct cars continue their journey past.

"Hey," a voice said quietly, breaking her vague thoughts. At the door, John raised a hesitant hand in greeting.

"Hi," she smiled back, heart skipping as her eyes met his.

"Rory said you were here. May I join you?"

"Course. You're my designated date for this afternoon slash evening."

John gave her a quick smile and came to stand in front of her. "Would you like to dance then?" He extended his palm face up in offering. Clara ducked her head and stood up, taking his hand.

"I'm not much of a dancer," he admitted, stepping backwards.

"We can't really move out from under this heater either," she advised.

John spun her around in his hand and grinned, pulling her closer. "I'm a portable heater."

"You are always very warm," she agreed, frowning. "It's almost weird. What about in summer?"

"Portable ice-block."

Clara put her head into his chest, reveling in his radiating warmth as they swayed slightly. She breathed him in, feeling herself start to drift at the intimate proximity.

"The electric heater is unfortunately doing a better job than you," she confessed, pulling away and moving back under it, not wanting her treacherous body to be so captured by him.

"Put this on," he smiled slowly, taking off his jacket and holding it up in offering. "Don't argue."

"Shall I tell my ego to calm the fuck down as well, _Doctor?"_

He grinned. "Probably would be wise."

John held it open and she slipped her arms through the sleeves. Warmth ensued. She sat down again, shifting so he could sit beside her.

"Just like prison," she smiled.

"You're a little bit less concussed."

"You're a little bit less arrogant." Clara turned her hinting smirk towards him.

" _I_ was rather civil, thank you," he retorted with a smile.

"Mmm. Okay. Sure." She grinned, closing her eyes and tilting her head back into the wall. "I was so rude to you. I can't believe how harsh I was. Have you noticed yet that in the real world I'm actually one of the politest and most courteous people you've ever met?"

"Top of the list," he replied, shifting his gaze from her to the expanding city.

"Prison me is the antithesis of normal me."

He hummed and nodded skeptically, a grin continuing beneath the sarcasm. _"So_ humble as well."

"Thank you. I appreciate the feedback."

Below them a chorus of laughing shouts commenced as a group of guests burst out of the side entrance. She listened to their indistinct yells until they disappeared back into the building.

"Did I tell you before the drafting of the best man's speech was my favourite part of the show?" John murmured, glancing at her.

"You mentioned something about it at the Tower," Clara replied, recalling. "I didn't ask why though."

"All those people, sending in their words. It was like writing a song, but with everyone. And then, they became his. Danny really meant it, too, when he spoke on the radio. It was so… raw. I've never—" He stopped to clear his throat a little. "I've never written a song about a person before. That's not obvious with my words, but I've never known how to. I have very selfish songs. They're all about me. Sort of. So, I thought when I heard how you all made that, it was just a brilliant way of how to create something very… selfless and honest." His brows creased a little. "I think. I think that's what I felt. Sometimes I don't know know what I'm feeling and I get confused." He gave her a weak smile. "Do you think I would have liked Danny?"

Clara hummed, smiling back. "Not sure. You're very different. Maybe. I'm not sure how much you would have had in common." She bit her lip and then grinned, merciless. "Could've bonded over adultery. There's something."

John drew in a deep breath, completely gauging her intentions before smiling with helplessness.

"Just… kidding," she added slowly and unnecessarily, extending the curve on her lips, a small part of her enjoying the defenceless position she was putting him in.

"John? I hope you didn't feel like… a replacement today." She frowned at him. "I don't think you did. But I should say it anyway. You weren't."

"I took his seat," he sighed, running a finger along his thigh before shaking his head slowly, meeting her gaze. "I… thought I might. But for some reason, I didn't. No."

She nodded and sent her eyes back to London's dark skyline. "What's your favourite flower?"

"Hmm," he murmured in consideration, not phased by her random question. "Can I choose any flora? Venus Flytrap. Dionaea muscipula. Carnivorous plants are _fascinating._ You know how obviously they close, right? Well, how it works is that they've evolved so that they'll only shut if there is _two_ contacts on the hair follicles within about twenty seconds of each other. So that means if a raindrop lands on it or something without nutritional value, it doesn't waste energy closing. A safeguard."

She dropped her head and smiled into her shoulder, trying to hide it. "That's not a flower. That's a bitey plant."

"It's better than a flower. Why do you want to know?"

"No reason," she murmured. "Just wondering. What else do you like?"

"Flower-wise or general-wise?"

"Anything. What else?"

He thought for a moment and then—"Bridges."

"You actually… do like bridges?"

"Yeah. Bridges are amazing. London bridges. And London Bridge, too. Specifically. That is a great bridge. You know the nursery rhyme…? _London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady._ There's lots of theories as to where it originated, but my particular favourite is in reference to Henry III, who was around in… the thirteenth century?"

Clara nodded as he asked for confirmation.

"Well. London Bridge was literally falling down. It was a fucking wreck, but Harry says to his wife, Eleanor, 'have this, darling—all the money collected from tolls and rent. We won't worry about fixing the bridge. Buy yourself something nice instead'. So she did, making _my fair lady_ a sarcastic, derisive verse."

John laughed, delighted in the theory. "And that is why, Clara, the monarchy needs to go. Bridge destroyers. And also, when the Thames is low in Vauxhall, you can see the remains of what might be the first bridge across the river." He sounded completely awed. "The wood has been dated to 1500 BC. That's incredible."

"So many… random facts."

He hummed, smiling. "I find reading helps me to… _calm down._ When I used to go on tours, I'd bring boxes of books in the bus and, ah, focus my attention on those when I started to feel… panicked. So, I read a lot. What's your favourite flower?"

"Hmm. No idea. I really like raspberries."

" _Technically_ , not a flower," he contended, smile on his lips.

"But they do _have_ flowers."

"Your favourite flower is a raspberry flower." A skeptical look.

"It is now. I don't even know what they look like but my ego won't let me backtrack."

John grinned out into the night. "Favourite… animal?"

"Mmm… Baby hedgehogs. They're adorable."

"What about adult hedgehogs?"

Clara shook her head slowly. "No. Only the babies."

John exhaled laughter, protesting. "But the adults look exactly the same! Just bigger."

"Once they're adults, they're dead to me."

He laughed once more and then bit into his lip, curious again. "Colour?"

"Red." She grinned at him as he raised his eyebrows. "Just kidding. Blue. Dark blue."

"Fucking red," he grinned back. "You're so funny."

"I know. I think I'm more funny than you, and you think you're hilarious."

"I _am_ though. No one ever laughs." He sighed. "Oh, no, wait—I have proof." The mournful expression shifted and he smiled at her, eyes averting to the jacket she was wearing. "I forgot. Inside pocket."

Clara reached her hand in and took out a newspaper cutting. She unfolded it and was then helpless to stop herself from laughing.

"I warned you not to smile!" she expressed, flattening the paper in her hand.

"It's _better_ that I'm smiling."

The cutting was a picture of John and herself leaving her house. Chainsaw clamped firmly in his hand, the look on his face radiated a persona channeling something a little too close to a happy Norman Bates.

" _Technically,_ this is only funny to us though."

"That's okay," he mumbled, suddenly quiet. "I only wanted to make you laugh."

"Well. Mission accomplished."

A weighted moment of silence spread between them before John spoke again. "Clara," he started. "This. This isn't anything you don't want it to be." He swallowed, clearing his throat slightly. "I don't want you to think I'm expecting anything. I hope you know that. I will be your friend, or you can tell me to fuck off. I don't…" He sighed, drawing lines on his trousers. "It's yours. Whatever you want."

His gaze dropped to his knees and he missed the small smile she gave him.

"Remember that poem I read to you?"

"Recited."

She closed her eyes with fond and weary amusement at his reflexive correction. " _Recited_ to you," she amended.

"The inevitable deceit of Time with a capital T."

"Yeah. That one. Well, I fucking hate that poem," she sighed, smiling at her knees. "It's a disaster for my head. How are you ever supposed to be happy if you know that it's going to be taken away?"

He swallowed. "You can't really."

"No." Clara pressed her hands together at her knees, tapping her fingers. "Walter should have kept his damn mouth shut." She frowned, annoyed. "Didn't he have better things to do that night? Like trying to escape?"

John's mouth curled ever so slightly at the edges. "The man clearly didn't know how to seduce a guard."

"Mmm. Could have spent more time at the gym practicing how to rip a door open, too. And what was he doing instead? Writing down some pessimistic bullshit specifically so I could be right here, four hundred years later, being annoyed about it."

"Very inconsiderate of him."

She nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. She had expected to be nervous telling him this, like yesterday when she had arrived at his house. But she felt no anxiety now, just a calm serenity sitting beside him and sharing his presence.

"I don't want to live like that," Clara swallowed. "I don't want to feel like everything good is transient. We're given these little moments and then… something happens and they're gone. And I'm just left… blaming something I have no control over. If it has to inevitably be taken away, then at least I could try not to speed the thing up and do it to myself."

John glanced up and she held his eyes, asking him silently not to look away.

"There's this little inconsistency I've had with you," she frowned, staring inquisitively. "I can't figure out why I feel like this. When I'm _with you—_ " She swallowed, running her eyes over him. "Being happy doesn't feel temporary. It feels constant. Happiness is… constant."

She breathed out, smiling at her words. "This is new," she added. "I'm not usually so… metaphorically sentimental. And that's a rather monumental thing to say after knowing someone for only two weeks, isn't it."

Clara turned away slightly, a hint of smile on her lips and muttering under her breath. "Although it's got nothing on what you said to me on Thursday."

Her knees became the sole recipient of a pressing grin.

"But that's okay. I guess all of this is just honesty. Anyway. My point is, I don't want Walter's stupid advice. So I'm going to take Ianto's instead. He told me that he knew the sort of man you were the first time he saw you play on stage." She smiled again as he blinked. "I think… I think I knew when I first looked at you, too. What sort of man you were."

John only kept a steady gaze on her, silent but perhaps a little uneasy. He clasped his fingers together to keep them still.

"John, I know… I know that what happened with us didn't happen for the wrong reasons. To say otherwise would be… false. But this has been a properly ridiculous two weeks. So, I'll just simplify it. I'm angry at Danny and I'm angry at you, and I'm so tired. Makes it a little difficult to think straight." She sighed. "But if happiness isn't a basis for something right, then nothing is. So, I'm going to trust here"—Clara touched her chest and then the side of her head—"instead of here."

Clara smiled at him carefully, watching his nervous, darting eyes. She ran her fingers over her forehead, thinking, a little unclear as to how to express the next part. "You… I'm not sure you're going to accept this." Her eyes scanned over him, considering. "You haven't committed an unforgivable crime, but I think that's how you feel. And you shouldn't. So we should talk about that, sometime, if you want to.

"And I'm not… _done_ with this. With being angry. But I think that's okay, too. I'm angry, but I feel good about it. Does that make sense? Angry-happy. Have you been angry-happy before?"

John blinked at her, startled and then shook his head quickly.

"Mmm. Neither. Or not really quite like this." Clara paused, wanting him to comprehend the importance of her words.

"I forgive you," she sighed. "Completely. And I want you to accept it. That's the whole meandering point of whatever I'm trying to say. And actually, honestly, if I'm throwing rational thought around, I don't even think I'm the one who's meant to forgive you. I don't feel like I'm truly certain you've done anything wrong. I mean, you _have,_ but in terms of me and you, it's all a bit… weird. Jesus. This is getting out of control." She grinned at him and tapped her fingers into the outside of his leg for a moment. "Let me try again."

Clara inhaled and fixed his gaze. "How about… I don't know what we're supposed to do now, but you're making me happy and I would at least like to be your friend." She gave him a soft smile, asking for whatever he had managed to pick up from a very convoluted sort of a speech. "Got all that?"

John swallowed and then nodded slowly, voice quiet. "Got it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." A weak smile.

"Good. Here's some more. You're, ah… you're also still married." She took another breath, brows creasing as she focused on the part that was a little easier to convey. "And while I appreciate it's not 1533 anymore, I'd still like to hold some reverence for what it means. To say those words like my friends just did in there."

"I understand." He nodded fractionally and gave a tiny, fleeting smile in return.

"We don't really know each other yet. We could… we could spend some time doing that first? Show me your goddamn tree documentary. Do you know anything about fixing motorbikes?"

He shook his head in the negative.

"Good. I'll tell you all about my automobile mechanical skills in the most esoteric way I can think of. So. Friends?"

"We can be friends?" he asked carefully, slow. "Even though I'm… really famous?"

She grinned. "I don't think I've experienced any of the positive perks of you being famous yet. I thought there would be some."

He blinked rapidly again, like the gears in his mind were still trying to catch up to what she had previously just said to him. Eventually, he shook his head as if to clear it and then hummed, thoughtful. "I can buy you anything you want."

"That's not a perk, you idiot. That's bribery."

"Oh. Well, there's…" He trailed off and she laughed when he didn't continue.

"There must be something."

"I can't think of anything," he admitted, looking annoyed at himself. "No, wait, I know! How could I forget. I can eat in the supermarket. No one cares. I could have a picnic in the aisle. And… if we get arrested again, we don't have to socialise with the other criminals."

Clara lifted her head to look at him, narrowing her eyes. "If _we_ get arrested again."

"Mmm. See, if I get arrested, I'd make some sort of immunity deal with the detectives and give them you instead. They always want the boss." He paused and then added—"Don't question the logistics of this situation. I'm the one with the prerogative of fame."

Clara could see his disposition changing. A weight lifting from his shoulders, perhaps. His anxiety beginning to fade, the nervous twitch in his fingers stopping and the softness returning back into his eyes. Good. She wanted him to feel like this instead. Whatever this new expression was. It might have been _happy._

"Do you remember that part on Downton when the house gets their first wireless and they listen to the King's speech?"

"Yeah," he smiled, glancing at her. "Is that your favourite part?"

She gave him an unimpressed look. "No. That was a test. I fucking _knew_ you watched Downton!"

He shook his head, realising in horror what he had done and then retracting. "I don't!"

"Too late."

"I don't!" he repeated quickly, scowling. "I don't even know what it is."

"Your police interrogation is going to be awful. That was way too easy. This is why I'm the boss."

He was clearly trying not to smile under his creased brows. "Would you visit me in the Tower?"

"Everyday."

"Do you own wellingtons?"

"Huh? Why?"

"Just wondering."

"Ah, okay... Yeah." Clara shrugged. "Of course. I go to Glastonbury every year."

"What," he said slowly.

"Glastonbury. There's mud."

"Every year?"

"Every year. With Amy and whoever else wants to spend four days with us in a tent. Actually the last couple of times Jack's got us a campervan. I could never go back to the tent after that."

"Did you go three years ago?"

"Yeah. Every year means every year."

"But _I_ played there three years ago."

"Did you?"

"Yes," he stressed.

"What stage?"

"Who the fuck do you think I am? Pyramid. Obviously."

She laughed, trying to contain it. "Really? Well. I clearly missed that."

John matched her amusement. "Passed out in the mud somewhere."

"No! I'm coherent most of the time. Except for 2009. I remember nothing."

"I suppose you're not doing Glastonbury right if you remember all of it. I am worried though you _did_ see me playing and didn't find it worth remembering."

She tried again not to laugh, although failed miserably. "I'd like to think I would have remembered. Let's just hope it was during my nap in the mud."

"Oh, I've thought of another perk. Tickets. I can get tickets to anything. For free. Theatre… concerts… What else do you need tickets for?"

"The… museum."

"Yeah. _The_ museum. And—it's not some backbencher nonsense either. Proper front and centre, almost-on-the-stage tickets."

"Probably is worth having you in my phone then," she smiled.

"I'm glad I remembered that."

They fell silent, listening to the distant sound of music making its way through the doors. The playlist for the evening was an eclectic combination. Another instance of literally everything being chosen by their listeners. She recalled absently the songs were also on the queue for the evening shows on the station. She smiled. There had been a big in-house, cross-show argument in relation to who exactly would have to stay and look after the control desks while everyone else was in attendance and getting drunk.

"Clara?" John asked quietly, breaking her drifting thoughts.

She hummed to indicate she was listening.

"I have this, um… House. Thing. Well, it's not really a house. More of a cottage."

"A cottage is a house."

"A cottage is a cottage."

"It's a small house."

"Okay—I have a cottage house. It's on Skye—"

"You have property on _Skye?"_ she exclaimed. "Yeah, you do have too much money."

He nodded. "I know. But, capitalism aside, it's, ah… there. I usually go in the summer for a few weeks. Write songs. Just sort of wander around by myself. It's quite… beautiful, actually. Looks out over the sea towards Stornoway. I had it done up a few years ago."

"New straw on the roof?" she smirked.

John bit his lip, trying to look unimpressed. "It's a very modern cottage. Underfloor heating. Four walls."

"Sounds nice."

"It is. It's very secluded. There's a castle up the road. I used to climb over the gate and trespass the grounds if I was there in the off-season.

"So," he swallowed, "I was wondering if you might want to…" He trailed off, hesitant and suddenly overly nervous. "You're… you're on leave for a bit. If you wanted to, I could take you there for some of that. Or all of it. Or a few days. Whatever you wanted. _If_ you wanted to.

"It wouldn't be cold, or anything," he continued quickly, as if that were a concern. "There's a fire place. And stuff in the walls. I already mentioned the underfloor heating. There's not really any other people around either. Not in winter. No… media or anyone. Very peaceful. And quiet. I guess it might rain the entire time, but that wouldn't be so bad. You've got wellingtons. There's lots of books. Or you could bring your own books. I have a lot of books on animals, which are actually really interesting, but you might not want to read those the entire time, so it would probably be better to bring something else."

He was rambling in concern now and a small part of her was thoroughly enjoying listening to him squirm as he waited for her to reply.

"So, you could read books. Or go walking with me outside. I could teach you something on the guitar. And show you the castle. Or you could do whatever you wanted. You wouldn't even have to talk to me. I'd just be there. You know, protecting you from the axe murderers. No—hang on, there's definitely no axe murderers, even though it's in the middle of nowhere. I promise it's completely murder-free. The man I get to look after the place, Colin, he has the unfortunate look of a potential serial killer, but really, he's lovely.

"You could could leave Margaret Thatcher with Amy and Rory," he added weakly.

She couldn't help but laugh at that point, pressing into his shoulder to try and stop it. "They'd really love me for that."

"Anyway," he swallowed. "All of that. It was just an idea."

An idea. She wondered if that _idea_ fitted into Ianto's definition of 'slow'. Or anything she had just nobly and admirably insisted about the sanctity of wedding vows.

"John," she sighed, smiling. "It's the best idea anyone's suggested to me in weeks."

"Really? You'd like to go?"

"Yes, please," she breathed out. "I want to move there permanently."

She heard his relieved amusement and laughed back at him, raising up her hand. John slapped her open palm and she grabbed his fingers before he could pull away.

"That was far more casual than I intended," she frowned, reconsidering, dropping their hands between them and pressing her thumb over his. "I said something really honourable before about respecting marriage and just being friends. As usual, I'm going to instantly contradict myself. So… I might just… kiss you. Is that all right? Just… you know. Once. Because I like you."

"And because I'm funny?"

She narrowed her eyes. "No."

"Worth a shot."

"Mainly, actually, John," she murmured, pulling him closer, her forehead touching his. "It's because you might possibly be the best person I've ever met."

He swallowed, blinking slowly as her words filled the small space between them. She put her other hand over his chest, pressing gently. Beneath his shirt she could feel his heart racing. She could tell he was struggling to process what she'd just told him. Probably not accepting it. She would have to do something about that. Later.

"Early days though," she smiled softly. "All sixteen of them."

"One type of ice for everyday."

She tried to stop the returning smile, failing as he grinned at her, lopsided and shameless. "And because I'm funny."

"Okay," she mumbled. "A little bit. But I'm only smiling because it was stupid-referential-funny. Not any other reason."

"I'm okay with that," he whispered into her mouth, his free hand skating across her cheek.

She closed the remaining gap and pressed her lips in his, sinking into his warm embrace. Probably, _definitely,_ could do this this forever, she mused as he ran his tongue gently across hers. This was a proper kiss, something definitively simple, yet intrinsically—

"Oi," came a call from the door. "You two. The criminals."

 _Interrupted,_ they broke apart, both turning to find Amy maintaining possibly the most irritatingly smug expression Clara had ever seen. "Inside, yeah? The boys are about to leave." She smirked for another second and then disappeared.

"Right then." John cleared his throat quietly, turning away from the door to meet her gaze. "Inside. After you."

She gave him a smile. "After _you."_

"Why?"

"I want to look at you."

His mouth parted slightly in surprise and then he smiled, almost smirking. "Calm down."

"You calm down."

 _"You_ calm down."

Clara grinned at him. "I am calm."

"Well, I've never been so calm in my life." His dark eyes told her that was an equivocal response.

"We're both calm then."

"Good."

"Good," Clara shrugged, sliding her hand into his and pulling him upright. Very good.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello. Welcome to the end!**

 **I've got lots of ideas as to where this thing could go next, so if there's any interest, I guess let me know! Thank you so very much for reading. I really appreciate the feedback too, this has been my first time writing a story about anything and I sort of… Well, let's be honest, I really rambled the f*** on, didn't I? Although in doing so, I have discovered I am endlessly amused by my own accidental tendencies to do sentence descriptions like this:**

 **"I'm probably going to be the next Stephen King after this," she smirked, smirking.**

 **Hold up—I think I've literally just thought of something more funny while typing that. Let me just quickly workshop this right here, right now. Bare with me.**

 **"I'm probably going to be the next Stephen King after this," she smirked smirkingly.**

 **Is that funny? You know… cos Stephen King hates adverbs? Yeah, all right. Sure. I've taken this too far now. Also, not sure why I censured myself up there either, you've just read 'fuck' and all its variants a grand total of 326 times, according to my trusty word search.**

 **Remember that Stephen King bit from five seconds ago? Yeah, I'm laughing at it now. I'm properly laughing at my own stupid joke. Nothing I wrote in this entire story was as funny as that right there. How annoying.**

 **Final note… This story was inspired from my favourite Who moment. There's this scene—and not just _any_ scene, it's the goddamn scene that makes all other scenes wish they were this scene. It's so... beautiful. The Third Doctor tells his companion, Jo, while alone together in their own prison—that he once shared a cell in the Tower of London with this man:**

 **Walter Raleigh.**

 **Right—listen here. Don't try and get out of it, I know exactly what you just did. It's pronounced Raw-leigh. Not Ra-leigh. I didn't lure you in and write over one hundred thousand words to provide you with some light entertainment. This has only ever been a public service announcement. Pass it on.**

 ** _Raw_ -leigh.**

* * *

 **Update: This public service announcement now has a sequel… which I am writing/have written depending on your time of reading this. Obviously. It's on my bio page. Obviously. You'll figure it out. Peace. X**


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